Las Vegas Trip - All About Me

And now a blog post about me. Las Vegas is my “hometown.” Mind you, in the first 10 years of my life, I lived in 15 different abodes – some houses, some apartments, some base housing. My first home is what my mother always described as, “The Hovel.”

After marrying my mother, my father took her far away from her family and home in Long Island to the great and untamed American desert where he was assigned to Nellis Air Force Base, outside of Las Vegas. It had been Las Vegas AFB until 1950, one year after military installations began being named after dead heroes. In this case, Lt. William Nellis – who flew P-47s in World War II in support of General George Patton’ 3^rd Army, in the Battle of the Bulge and, finally, in support of the U.S. Army 101^st Airborne Division – survived being shot down twice before guns took out his craft in Luxembourg, this time flying too low to bail out.

The now 11,300-acre base looks nothing today as it did in 1954 when I was born in the Clark County Hospital, just renamed from the Clark County Indigent Hospital and now the University Medical Center of Southern Nevada.

Wikipedia Photo

 

For that matter, when I was born, Las Vegas was nothing like the glaring and blaring place it is now.

The Las Vegas Strip in 1954, photo by Eloff Perez

Between 1952 and 1957, the Teamsters and Mormon bankers came together to build Las Vegas’ first casino hotels:  The Sahara, The Sands, and The Tropicana. The Riviera, first of the high-rises on the strip and in which the Marx Brothers had an interest, opened the month we left Nellis to follow my father to his assignment in Japan. These were the early days of Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Andy Williams, Liberace, Bing Crosby and Carol Channing. It wasn’t until a year after we left that the first “integrated” (as in racially) hotel opened.,, The Moulin Rouge.

I intended to attempt to track down places I lived as a baby but found the horizon-to-horizon dirt-colored housing tracts to be far too intimidating. 

Let the Reunion Rock On

From the first emails and phone calls planning the reunion of women from Marian Central High School’s Class of 1966, every life decision Maureen made hinged on that one early week in April 2014. While Maureen needed dental work, she made it clear to both dentists involved that no appointments would happen until after Las Vegas. Carol’s looking for a job? As long as it starts after Las Vegas. I got roped into jumping on the early planning bandwagon with a call from organizer Chris after everyone sorted out that we’d all stay at Caesar’s Palace instead of the more expensive Bellagio, where Gerri planned to stay. As the departure date neared, Maureen reported a flurry of emails with everything from meeting up times to, of course, oh-what-to-wear.

I mentioned in the previous post Gerry’s very gracious hosting of dinner and cocktails on the first evening in Las Vegas. A couple of things struck me as an observer more than a participant. First, the smart phones – showing photos of kids and dogs to each other and snapping picture after picture of each other. 

Then there was the din of so many conversations starting, changing course and coming back, invariably to much laughter. And the stories:  Gerry, a newcomer to the grade school being told by a nun that she would share a locker with Maureen, who pointed out exactly what spaces to use, traumatizing Gerry to this day; tales of various hijinks in vehicles traveling at excessive speeds down country roads, fueled by alcohol, as it were; and the sadder recounting of classmates lost or vanished. All of which reflected the camaraderie going back for more than a half-century. And the accent. Everyone sounded like Maureen and her accent became more pronounced after every passing moment. The accent is hard to describe – it isn’t quite the movie Fargo, nor as distinctive as that of min-eh-SOH-dans (who hate the Cheeseheads – Green Bay Packer fans – even more that do Illinoisans).

The party in the suite continued for some time after Maureen and I Ieft, tired from our days of driving. The group convened for brunch on Sunday morning, our northern Midwest friends marveling at the flowers and warmth of the day, all but Pat and us having all just emerged from an unusual and hideously cold and snowy winter.

I got the group to pose for a group shot. Introducing (left to right):  Pat (Santa Fe), Maureen (Oakland), Kathy (Chicago), Chris (Crystal Lake, Ill., near the Wisconsin Border), Nancy (Wisconsin), Teri (Woodstock, Ill., Maureen’s original home), Gerry (also Crystal Lake), and Diane (Minnesota).

Moving this group of strong-willed girls took a firm hand. Most often, Gerry and Kathy knew where we were going and former teacher Chris led us, two-by-two. Often lagging in the back, I wondered about the seemingly amoebic movement of the group as it would ooze along, stop and clump for no apparent reason, start up again I disorder, then fall back into its decisively moving phalanx.

Maureen and I enjoyed meals with the group and some day time gambling. 

Mon Ami Gabi at the Paris Hotel/Casino

Hash House A Go Go in the Quad Hotel

Hash House A Go Go in the Quad Hotel

Our server next to Gerry and her "Man v. Food Favorite," Andy's Sage Fried Chicken.

The rest partook of much of what Las Vegas had to offer – the Bellagio fountain lights, the lights of Fremont Street in the old Strip, and a show – at least one arriving in the morning swearing off gin forever. It seems that everyone but me came out even or ahead in gambling on various machines (no tables for any of us, except the two who found an accommodating and bored roulette dealer who taught them how to play).

Far too soon, and with too early flights to reconvene on departure day, we bid farewell to the women of Marian Central High School’s Class of ’66.

Chris

Diane

Gerry

Nancy

Pat (with the "Enough with the camera" look)

Teri with yours truly, The Author (Thanks to Nancy)

Kathy

Maureen

Me, with white hair and shoes, impersonating a Q-Tip.

Maureen thanks everyone for the memories and looks forward to the next meet-up!

Death Valley Explored

We awoke early, as usual, rising from bed at Stovepipe Wells to a clear desert sky and reasonable temperature. 

I Febreezed the non-smoking room to within an inch of its non-life as we packed and loaded the van, sneezing at the smell of wood smoke coming through our open door. Our packing included all evidence of cigarette smoking, not wanting to pay the $250 “cleaning fee” that would have entailed the same Febreezing. We saw that I was fed before heading out to explore the valley while enroute to Las Vegas. I have to thank Maureen for her patience along the way as I braked hard over and over again to take advantage of photo ops. 

Maureen largely occupied herself rustling around with maps and trying, over and over again, to get enough cell “dots” to be able to view Saturday’s Santa Anita Derby on her iPhone. Not getting that and failing to know if the great race horse Zenyatta had thrown her third foal yet frustrated her to no end. When the guides to Death Valley indicate that cellular coverage is spotty, believe them. Most of the time, it is non-existent.

I couldn’t get enough of the color contrast, the vastness, the formations. On the Borax Twenty Mule Team loop of a couple of miles, I was also taken by evidence of rain runoff. The structural photos are of the Harmony Borax Works. Although I found some evidence of glass bottles broken long ago, I was impressed by the lack of trash and grateful to our fellow visitors for their respect of this National Park.

Telescope Peak from Death Valley

We stopped near the Furnace Creek resort to take a break. Dad and Pat stayed there when they ventured to and explored Death Valley. Hard to believe but it is true:  there is a golf course, of all things, in the hottest, driest part of the U.S.

I discovered, with my there's-an-app-for-that iPhone, that we were merely 73 feet short of the lowest point in North America.

Maureen was anxious to end the photo journey and begin our Las Vegas adventure so we motored from the emptiness to the outskirts of the city, marveling at the thousands of acres covered by houses, all painted in the same desert dirt color. More map rustling ensued as we neared downtown. At one point, I thought we needed to be six lanes across to the right of Highway 95 when we actually needed to be six lanes to the left. By the time we got to Caesar’s Palace, I was exhausted and very grumpy (which tend to go hand-in-hand for me). The solution? Feed me, of course.

As I stomped through the lobby and Maureen wandered around behind me, we entered the small restaurant just off the registration area of Caesars and heard a familiar voice call to Maureen. It was Pat, who’d just stayed at our house to attend the Napa memorial service for the husband of another of Maureen’s high school classmates. She was seated with Nancy at the outside restaurant bar area. Hugs, of course, followed by tales of travels between them as I slurped my French onion soup.

Feeling somewhat restored, we parted ways with Pat and Nancy to settle in to our room. It turns out that we had the best room, complete with view and jacuzzi. 

Relieved to be rid of the smoking Nazis, as we call them, and in a smoking room, I left Maureen to unpack to retrieve the van from valet parking to retrieve our six-pack of wine and bottled water. Nothing is free in Las Vegas, as we discovered when I called to inquire about the coffee pods that would fit the in-room coffee maker.

The time came to join the whole group of high school buddies in Gerry’s suite. She got it specifically for this gathering of dear (we won’t use the “old” word here) friends, and put on a feast of food and beverages for us. I took video when Diane, the last to arrive, finally got there.

Death Valley Ho!

I awoke to taps on my shoulder and a voice, “It’s time to go to Las Vegas.” I muttered that I needed more z-time. It was dark. I was warm. But I was awake. Because, “… time to go to Las Vegas,” meant both the promise of great times with Maureen’s grade school and high school girlfriends, but also a long-awaited trip back to Death Valley.

We did not plan our first trip to Death Valley. I was happily driving away from Las Vegas –  Maureen’s beautiful German Shepherd show dog Rosie having gotten dumped by a judge at a show there – and I was just settling into cruise control. 

Rosie left, Raven and a younger me.

I saw Maureen’s head whip to the right at the sight of a road sign, followed by her rustling around with a map. I had a feeling. “Have you ever been to Death Valley,” she asked. I panicked and tried to fabricate. “Oh, sure,” I said, blood pounding in my ears for committing such a sin, “When I was a kid.” The California state map rustle again and Maureen, thumb and forefinger separated by an inch, said, “It’s only this far. Let’s go.”

We went. We, with Rosie and our first German Shepherd Raven (who’d survived a record-breaking drive to Vegas with Maureen before I flew in to meet them), danced on dunes, marveled at the expanse, and took roads that should have shattered the suspension of our first Dodge Caravan, RGSHEPS. We stopped on the way out, overlooking from on high the expanse of 3 million square miles of “fucking desolation,” as Maureen tends to refer to deserts, including the Mojave. Desert Valley itself is 3,000 square miles. We stopped at an overlook on the way out call our cat-sitter about being off our schedule. Our shoe-box sized cellular phone got through. Then Maureen fell asleep. I drove. And drove. She took over when we returned to Bakersfield, a relative civilization, and to the Interstate. God love President Dwight D. Eisenhower.

This time, Death Valley was part of the itinerary. Through the magic that is Google, I found a place called Stovepipe Wells, inside the national park and at the edge of the valley of death itself, where we could stop on our way to Sin City. The garage door closed at 8 a.m. as we began our journey. 

We stopped in Wesley, just a few miles on Interstate 5 South, the dreaded I-5, for our customary McBreakfast. 

It is another throwback to our years of traversing up and down California to drag Rosie and Bogie to dog shows. I-5 through the Central Valley is not quite as boring as driving through West Texas, but it is damned close and without the dead armadillos. Unofficial roadside signs announce the farms that produce most of the country’s citrus, grapes and raisins, and almonds is actually a dustbowl created by Congress. Sure, there are stretches of Twilight Zone tumbleweed piles. But those sit between horizon-to-horizon orchards, vineyards and cotton fields. Cattle and sheep dot the Central Range foothill landscape.

We made a left turn at Bakersfield and, soon after, began the second half of the trip that we’d negotiate on two-lane roads. We’d talked the day before, when stuck in traffic in San Francisco taking Merlin and Annie to Pet Camp, about how joyous we would be on the open road. And we were without much traveling company, even the few times I had to reimagine the thrill of gauging whether or not we’d pass a slower car before being smeared all over the highway by oncoming traffic. Miles and hours went by. I got hungry as we approached Ridgecrest, the last real city before the beginning of Nowheresville. As Maureen says, “When Carol gets hungry, she must be fed.” Denny’s happened and I was all better. Death Valley was not that far ahead.

Half-way or so to our stay-over destination, we stopped at the Ballarat mining camp ghost town (est. 1897, post office closing in 1917). Its biggest claim to fame is that the monstrous Manson Family owned a ranch near there. 

Truck allegedly used by the Manson Family.

Now it appears to have become a hangout for biker gangs and mini-Burning Man meet-ups. The sole resident, George “Rocky” Novak was interesting in his own right. Enough so that Maureen bought each of us the T-shirt documenting our visit. We stopped by the graveyard and, after wandering around a bit, Maureen wondered, “Why bother burying someone if you don’t put up a marker?” 

One dead resident did have a marker. Prospector Charles “Seldom Seen Slim” Ferge, (1889 – 1968). His epitaph, a quote from Slim himself, “Me Lonely Hell No! I’m Half Coyote and Half Wild Burrow.”

I took photos, of course. I always take photos. I love taking photos and sometimes doctoring them up as I did the truck used by Charles Manson, et. al., (above) and a vistas, leaving the scenic views enhanced only slightly.

Fortunately, we did not have to drive over 11,000-foot Telescope Peak, but we did have to negotiate our way across the Paniment Range, Death Valley’s eastern border (to the east, the Amargosa Range, with the Sylvania and Owlshead Mountains being its northern and southern boundaries). That part reminded both of us of driving in Colorado’s Rocky Mountains… without the trees. 

Then, as happens, we came over a rise in the road to have Death Valley below us.

An entrepreneur named Bob Eichmann opened Stovepipe Wells in 1926, having completed the first road to access Death Valley from the west. He envisioned a grander resort but we found the rustic accommodations quite comfortable.

We learned that the 300 or so staff people of various ilk live onsite in dormitories behind the hotel. The young man in the General Store from whom we learned that hails from Oklahoma but, returning from “overseas,” decided he needed a change in scenery. I asked if he was military (the haircut and demeanor gave it away) and he replied that he’d served in Iraq. He smiled when I offered my hand and thanked him. 

We paid for a “deluxe” room so Maureen could watch television but, without the DVR, she could find nothing to watch. So we did the next best thing. We moseyed over to the saloon to whet our whistles. Ten hours on the road caught up with us. We zonked out in our room, one of 83 in all of Stovepipe Wells (which is no more than the motel, saloon, and General Store operating as a National Park Service).


Good night, Death Vally.