Driving Arizona: Part One – Hoover Dam and the Grand Canyon

After checking out of our hotel, we took a cab to the airport to collect the hire car. Having never been through the process before, I was surprised at how easy and informal it was. Once we'd checked into the company desk, we were sent to the parking lot where an old guy pointed at a row of SUVs and said, "just take one of them" – so we did.  We took a Kia something or other, as it was the biggest of the choice available. I'd anticipated to be quite nervous to be driving on the other side of the road in a big car and all that, but I found I took to it quickly and without incident. The sat nav made everything easy. I found adjusting to the other side of the road a relative breeze, and we were soon out of Las Vegas and winding down a hillside opposite Lake Mead, which offered stunning vistas, so we stopped for a photo opportunity. We continued on route and were soon approaching signs for the Hoover Dam, it wasn't pencilled on our itinerary but we followed them anyway, and stopped for 45 minutes to have a look around. We walked the span of the dam and marvelled at the engineering, before stopping off on the freeway bridge and looking down on the facility, and from that height it suddenly looked rather small.

Lake Mead.

Looking down the Hoover dam.

I did as I was told.

Looking down from the bridge.

It suddenly looks a lot smaller from high up.

Further towards Flagstaff and into Arizona we past lots of groups of glinting RVs, parked out in the dry scrub, a few hundred yards off the road. Some of America's one million nomads. We were temporary nomads on this trip. Not far from here, we saw signs for the Grand Canyon Skywalk, which is a glass platform extending over the canyon, so we ignored the sat nav woman and took a right across country. We went through small desert settlements, surrounded by cacti and Joshua trees. These were trailer shack communities of peeling paint, rusting pick-up trucks and dry rot. It was like the kind of place you see in a post-apocalyptic movie. There was a church every half mile, or even less, and with little else out here you can see why God fills the vacuum. The dusty road snaked through these sparse settlements, and they reminded me of places I'd seen in Siberia and Mongolia. This was America, but this was poor America. It shouldn't be surprising, large swathes of the country are poor, we forget it when we swallow the glitz and sparkle of chrome America, but the rocky desert is a long way from Times Square. The road gave way to a grit track, no different to one you'd find in a quarry and this continued for 15 miles. There were no junctions to ever take, so it must've been the right direction. It was. We pulled onto a tarmac road again and soon up to a check point for the park. The friendly guy on the gate had some bad news for us, the park was closed for the day and we'd have to turn around. There was still 45 minutes of light and I'd hoped to be there for sunset, and beyond for the unveiling of stars, but it wasn't going to happen. We'd lost an hour as we'd crossed a time zone when entering Arizona, we might have just made it if that hadn't been the case.

I drove through darkness the way we came, before picking up signs to Flagstaff and eating up the road. There were huge distances between towns; we passed Stockton, which seemed reasonable size, but there was little else in between. We needed gas and so stopped with a quarter tank when finally it was signposted, and the detour by chance took us onto historic Route 66. Although the road no longer really exists, much like the world it made famous through books and songs, stretches of it are still in use, albeit under different names. The rest of the road was decommissioned, and sections of the road were disposed of in various ways. After gas, which three quarters of a tank cost a delightfully cheap $40, we stopped at a diner for food. I had loaded potato skins and chicken wings, with a bucket of Pepsi to wash it down. I went outside afterwards for a look around while Matt needed to use my computer. I coughed and choked and gagged, and ended up spewing up half my dinner onto The Road. I don't know what Jack would make of that.

Gas station store on Route 66.

Historic Route 66.

It was now a bit of a heritage place.

The diner we ate in.

It wasn't much further to Flagstaff, and we arrived in the city by 11pm. The air was cold as the city is 7 or 8,000 feet above sea level, we checked into a motel and hit the hay.

The next morning we left before 8am. We'd planned to leave earlier but being late was always likely. After 10 minutes we managed to pick up the right road towards the Grand Canyon. We drove through muted pine forests for ages, and then out into dry golden grasslands surrounded by pleasant hills. The speed limits were often painfully slow, 45mph on empty wide open roads, and of course my speed drifted over from time to time, though I wasn't consciously doing it. On one 65mph road I noticed I was doing about 75mph when a police patrol car went by in the opposite direction. I dropped my speed to the limit but I saw him turn around in my mirrors and come up behind us. I was mildly nervous and amused at the same time. After a minute of following me at 63mph, his lights went on and I pulled over. A fat sheriff waddled over. "Licence and registration". Yes! This was great; nothing that bad was going to happen, but I knew it would be a fun experience nonetheless. He was reasonably friendly, and my polite, smiley and subservient conversation made things run smoother. He wrote me a ticket which is a cool souvenir; it has no consequence, no fine, no court summons, nothing. Just a warning. I'll make sure I wear my lighter shoes from now on. And figure out how to set the cruise control.

The scenery north of Flagstaff.

The road towards the Grand Canyon, on which I let my speed creep up.

The cop in my rear view mirror.

It wasn't that much further to the Grand Canyon itself. We paid to get into the park, and headed to a rim trail. We spent 15 minutes taking in the views; it was much wider than I'd expected – miles across – and so it's name certainly wasn't hyperbole. After walking around and taking different pictures, we jumped back in the car and took the road that skirted the edge of the canyon for another 30 miles or so. We stopped off at various view points for some quick admiration and photographs, before continuing on our way. I was conscious to press ahead, as we had a huge drive that day, and I really wanted to make Monument Valley in good time. With that in mind, the canyon was a bit of a rush, but once you've seen an enormous gulf in the ground, is there that much more to see?

Looking down on the Grand Canyon.

I wouldn't like to try and cross it.

It's miles wide.

Tourists look out from a viewing deck.

 

Canyon selfie.

Tiny people pose for a photo.

Matt began driving from the Grand Canyon towards Monument Valley, right in the north of the State. We rode through variations of desert, all of it easy on the eye. I'm a bit of a nervous passenger, as in I'm always thinking about what's on the road, and I don't like surrendering control. Matt's a bit of a nervous driver, and each of our nerves probably increased the others. I did my best to relax, but it wasn't helped by the jolting, jerking and frequent drifting over the rumble strips, straining my sinews and tightening my nerves. It was all fine though, and we started to make good progress towards Monument Valley and Navajo Country.

Wing mirror desert selfie.

Matt passing a large RV.

The desert highway.

Road to heaven.

Beer and Roaming in Las Vegas

Sunday night lights.

I eventually found Matt waiting in the other terminal to which I arrived, and we took a cab into the glowing city. Rainbow lights poured down from high-rise casinos and hotels and a stream of plump and greying tourists flowed along the pavements. We got dropped off at our hotel – The Flamingo – checked in and dropped our bags in the clean and modern room on the 20th floor, with great views across the city. After a quick freshen up we headed out to the strip for an explore and to find our bearings. We walked towards the brightest lights and where the chaos was greatest. Every twenty yards glum-looking immigrants thrust flyers for prostitutes towards us; they knew their market. There were pictures of famous pornstars on the cards, claiming to be 'Stacey' and available for $39. How their careers have plummeted. We wandered in some of the casinos, which were ridiculous. Many of them were themed, such as Paris and New York New York; and I laughed at how fantastically opulent yet tacky they were. The casino halls themselves were little different from what you find on the British seaside, except they were all gambling machines, variations on fruit machines, one armed bandits, card game machines, and then the tables for games like roulette and poker. It could've done with some Time Crisis or something with a narrative. The halls were cavernous and smokey, and filled with old people; the constant jangling of melodies erupted from everywhere to create the theme tune to a headache. It was all pretty mesmerising and fantastically disgusting in equal measure. We played a few of the machines. I seemed to win and double my money every time, but I never made more than $10, before losing it all. It was entertaining though, even though I'm not really a gambler. We had some dinner in a French themed restaurant, which was alright. We had to queue for it, they stuck all the old people in dim corners at the back, we were seated on the front next to the walkway. We were happy with the view, but joked we were the window dressing to entice people in. It soon filled up. We spent the night drinking a few beers in different places, and walking the main drag and checking out the various casino halls. It was a bit like a Disney for adults with vices, and although from a Christian perspective Satan and sin was everywhere, it was all very mild and I didn't witness anything particularly crazy. That said, the whole strip is an assault on the senses, and I certainly wouldn't want to scoff any hallucinogens, like the movie Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas, it might be a bit too much - reality here can be filled with enough ripples and time-loops naturally. I also didn't see any drunk people. Not properly drunk. Not like you see in any British town on a weekend. The Americans don't drink like we do. I didn't see any fights, any arguments, no girls in heels falling over, no vomit, no blood. It couldn't done with it really. It was largely older couples, approaching retirement, looking bored of each other and pissing their money into machines. The Sunday night was Remembrance Sunday, and the town was full of young marines in dress uniform, looking very smart; many with young girls in cocktail dresses on their arms. They were generally walking around without any purpose, and didn't really seem to be letting loose. Shame. The rest of the people were a mix of seedy guys, freaks and weirdos, young unsure people and wide-eyed tourists. Mostly though it was older people. Like older people, we were both exhausted come midnight, which was pathetic really; but that was 8am UK time and my body clock still hadn't adjusted, so we decided to call it a night.

Looking down Las Vegas Boulevard, aka the Strip.

Inside Paris.

Matt chasing his own American Dream.

A-frame mobile whore advertising.

Look, there's a bum.

Word of my sporting heroics has reached America.

This is normal.

Traffic.

Inside one of the casino caves.

The following morning we both woke early, our body clocks still ticking along to the UK, and after breakfast in the room we went out, a little unsure what to do with our day. We went the opposite direction to the night before, and explored some of the other casinos and hotels. They were equally as ridiculous as the others; the Venetian had a canal running through it complete with gondolas to ride. All of the casino hotels were also giant shopping malls, with a range of shops from H&M to Gucci. We didn't go in any of them. We started drinking at about 11am in Caesars Palace, just a pint to start with over some brunch, then into some other casino halls to drink bourbon on the rocks. We had one called Knob Creek, simply because I wanted to order 'two knobs on the rocks' without giggling. I almost managed it. I could feel this drink hit me, and it was the beginning of a boozy afternoon. We played a few machines, won then lost it, before deciding to play roulette at a table. The bets were a minimum of $15, which we didn't realise at first. In fact the whole thing was a bit of a learning curve, the etiquette, the rules, and the staff were on the ruder side of helpful. In fact I'd found quite a lot of the Americans rather rude, abrupt and abrasive, and short with their answers. I got told off for moving Matt's chips, even though I could reach and he couldn't, amongst various other misdemeanours. In three spins of the roulette wheel we'd turned our meagre pile of chips into $102, somehow and inexplicably. The first bet we lost, the second we split it on black and evens, it landed on 20, so we won both counts and doubled our money. We banked the winnings and left the same bet on the table. We won again. We then decided to leave, not really liking the roulette guy, and knowing the only way to win is to quit the game right now, cash the chips, and leave the casino. It felt a bit like robbery, and someone was going to ask for it back at any point. We walked out giggling, with enough money in our pocket to get drunk for the afternoon. We went into another casino, Treasure Island, which was fusty and cheap, but we could drink $6 mojitos at one of the bars, which suited us fine. We played a few of the machines, only small bets, but came away with nothing, before settling at the bar and chatting to a late middle aged guy from Kentucky called Jay. I quite enjoyed talking to him. We talked everything from sport to weed to Edward Snowden and lots of things in between. He must've enjoyed talking to us as he insisted on buying us a round of drinks, so we gratefully accepted and chatted some more. 

Our hotel - The Flamingo. It had Flamingos in the garden. Real ones.

One of the many wedding chapels.

One of my short-term winnings.

Caesar's Palace.

Down by the Venetian.

Our old friend Jay. He was alright, really.

By 5.30pm we were a bit drunk, and I wanted to go and take some photos. It was already dark so I'd missed the golden hour, but Matt went for a wander while I indulged my photography, but didn't really manage to get anything great. Afterwards I met up with Matt again, had some dinner and a beer, before heading to a comedy hypnosis show we'd bought tickets for. Vegas is full of shows, the bigger ones were well over $100, which we weren't going to pay, so we opted for some cheap no-name, just to say we went to a show. It started at 10pm and ten minutes later I was asleep in my chair. I don't know if the hypnosis was having an effect on me, or the fact I was shattered and a mild hangover was already kicking in, as it does when you get drunk on spirits in the middle of th afternoon. I only saw some of the show, waking up in and out of it. It seemed ok, but not worth the struggle to stay awake for. It was dark and the seat was comfy, pretty relaxing aside from the moronic laughs of much of the audience, creased up at the sight of someone pretending they're on a Playboy photoshoot. The bits I saw were entertaining, I even smirked a few times and exhaled through my nose as a sign of amusement, but that was all I could muster. I had hoped to have a wild night of unexpected tales and delights, but come midnight I was crawling into bed again, unable to handle any more of Vegas. It didn't seem like there was that much there for me anyhow. Maybe I did it wrong, maybe I went to the wrong places, but the Vegas I saw was barrel-bellied men from the mid-West placing irresponsibly large bets and dry-humping the American Dream. It was also filled with silent dead-eyed Californian women, deep into retirement with permed hair that didn't make them look any younger, and the cigarette stuck to their lips made me question how they'd made it this far, pumping coins into fruit machines like they were feeding a dream they couldn't kick. I didn't encounter the actual craziness which is meant to be embodied by Vegas. The casinos are quite mad, the opulence and tackiness is insane, but I didn't really stumble upon any insane behaviour, which I was hoping to do. It was all a little tame. Perhaps the people I know who have raved about it filled their hotel room with hookers and their face-holes with drugs, but I doubt it; I think perhaps instead they're just easily pleased. 

Inside another of the gambling pits.

I kept repeating the same style of photograph.

Another.

And another.

It's a bit late for this, pal.

Day 2: Nashville amble and flight to Vegas

Around the motel. 

I'd set my alarm to give me 10 hours sleep, but was awake enough to emerge from my morning dozing after 6 hours pillow time, such was the effects of jet lag. After a lazy early morning spent online and streaming the lunch time Premier League game, Mark and I headed out for a stroll and to get some breakfast. There wasn't much around our motel of any interest, just a car wash, a few petrol stations and a selection of diners, but the fabric of America itself was both interesting and exciting. We walked up a small hill towards a leafy residential area. A chorus of crickets erupted from the long grass to sing the morning hymns, grey squirrels scurried and rustled in the dry fallen leaves, and a smell of autumn and pine cones hung in the warm blue air. The houses were neat, stars and stripes flags were hung on some of the porches and fluttered in the breeze, sagging pumpkins slumped on verandas left over from Halloween, and the odd lone person picked up the newspaper from the end of their driveway, much like the start of each Sopranos series. The suburb was gentle and still. It felt as familiar as any US TV drama of the past 20 years, and like we were sneaking around the set, as wide residential streets unwound in front of us. 

Sleepy suburbia.

Autumn was almost over.

Halloween decorations left up. Mark's reflection in the door.

We called in a rough looking sports bar which was advertising breakfast, from a sign missing half of its letters. Inside was smokey, and we sat at a dark sticky table and looked around at the neon Miller Lite signs and observed the curiously dressed locals – a mixture of bikers in bandanas and unfit sports fans – and listened as they talked with their Tennessee drawls. The barman asked if we were Australian. "No. English". And the cast of this scene collectively threw a glance towards us. I ordered a stack of pancakes, bacon and a bottle of beer for breakfast. It was all exactly what I wanted, and it was the beginning of America. 

The JC Bullseye Sports Bar for breakfast. A wonderful dive.

Just after noon I took a cab to the airport and allowed myself plenty of time. The taxi driver was from the Ivory Coast, and we chatted a little in French on the five minute journey, as colourful African beats danced behind joyous guitars from his CD player. A lot of the people I'd encountered so far in service jobs were immigrants. I know the States is a nation of immigrants, but these were all first generations and hadn't shaken off their accents. I was surprised by this, I didn't imagine America to be as porous as the UK in terms of recent migrations, but then again, how would I know. At the airport the camp check-in guy on the desk looked at my ID and said 'UK! Cool!'. I gave a smug nod. I could get used to this undeserved currency. I sat and waited for my flight to Denver airport, the camouflage for the supposed New World Order's underground bunker, as Taylor Swift's album played over the airport tannoy. At least that saved some of my iPod battery.

Nashville airport.

Through a window.

An old couple wait for the flight.

I arrived in Denver airport 10 minutes after my gate opened for my connecting flight to Las Vegas. Not again. I managed to get off the plane and sprint 150 metres down the departures lounge to my awaiting gate, which was about to close. I didn't have time to have a look around Denver airport –which is an item of curiosity for those who wear tin-foil hats – but in the brief time I did have I didn't see anything of which I had read about. I'll just have to wait for a personal invite from a Rothschild to uncover the hidden truths of the place. Google it. 

Denver airport. 

Departing Denver.

Looking over Denver.

The geographical seam between the Rockies and the Great Plains.

Snowcapped mountain tops.

I had a window seat on the connecting flight to Vegas, and was squeezed in next to a fat toe-headed mother and daughter, the seatbelt a cheese wire through their ample guts. As we took off from Denver I saw the Rocky Mountains slump to a halt on the edge of the Great Plains, just on the edge of the city. The mountains were snow capped and the plane hung in a dark orange dusk all the way west to Las Vegas. After touch down I collected my bags from the carousel, adjacent to which were a host of one-armed-bandits and gambling machines, and then made my way over to the other terminal to meet Matt. 

Flying into Las Vegas.

Gambling machines by the baggage carousels.

Queueing up for an American Adventure.

I'm on the road again, and it feels great to be exploring somewhere new. It's only for two weeks – so it's short and sweet – though with 6 flights and over 2,500 miles to drive in that time, perhaps some of the way will be long and bitter. Yesterday I flew to Nashville, via Washington DC. I'm travelling to the States with my friend Mark, who I used to work with at the paper, and meeting my housemate Matt in Las Vegas tomorrow, before picking up a car and driving back to Nashville.

The planned route of our road trip – it may change as we go.

Mark and I were meant to arrive in Nashville for early evening, having left London Heathrow at noon the same day. Our United Airlines flight was late getting into Washington; then we were forced to queue like cattle for immigration and customs for well over an hour, to be quizzed by a bored Border Officer for 30 seconds, during which time I lied to him. Twenty minutes into that first queue, our connecting flight to Nashville left. Oh well, we were powerless to change the outcome so there's no point in trying. We spent the next three or so hours in more queues. Queues that wound round themselves like a bored and frustrated snake and then round corners, like a joke. Once they were certain we weren't carrying any bombs or any water – the latter in case we wanted to drown the pilots for a hijacking – we joined a customer service queue to sort out the connecting flight fuck up. Another hour passed. Half the staff left their desks and weren't replaced as their shifts finished, the winding and grumbling queue progressed at an even slower rate. I wasn't left with a good impression of United. First of all those terrorist attacks 12 years ago, then the food wasn't that good, and now this. Once we reached the desk, we were informed we were already on the next flight to Nashville at 9.55pm. We had a few hours now, so sat in a mock English pub and smirked at loud Americans, while eating a much needed burger and necked an even greater necessity - a pint of Guinness.

The flight from Washington Dulles to Nashville (taken on my HTC One).

The final flight was cramped and the cabin was tiny, I was sat towards the front and I could see the pilots and all their sticks and buttons who weren't protected behind any security doors, which is surprising in this day and age. If there had been a hijacking though, I wouldn't have known anything about it. I was asleep before the plane was in the air and didn't wake up until the wheels were back on the ground a smooth hour later, so who knows what mid-air dramas unfolded. A red-eyed Danny Dyer to play me in the movie. I'd had three hours sleep in two days, and was rather tired. Upon arriving in Nashville airport, with its brown early 90s interior and country music piped through the speakers, my eyes felt like sandpaper. We jumped in a cab and drove the 5 minutes along empty highways to our airport motel and pretty much headed straight to bed. Our plans of a big night out in Nashville to kick-off our trip had been punctured by the travel delay and weariness of queues. Perhaps it was a blessing in disguise, as the next night will be in Vegas, and surely I'll need my shut-eye for that.

Our midnight motel was in a thrilling location.

A film.