Heading Home

To condense over a week’s worth of stuff into a short sentence:

I visited a bunch of breweries, a couple of wineries, and some friends.

Check out this view from my friends’ backyard, just outside of Reno:

Deserts are cool.

Deserts are cool.

On my way across Nevada (I’m taking the interstate back to speed things up a bit), I passed this sign (I didn’t stop to take the picture; I figured, correctly, that someone had already posted it on the internet):

I find your lack of trees disturbing.

Tonight, I’m in Salt Lake City. As I discovered on my last adventure, Utah does, indeed, have good beer. But they have weird laws about them. Still, I was able to find a brewery, Red Rock, and sample some of their delicious beers – and I even brought one back to my hotel, one of the few Russian Imperial Stouts I’ve seen apart from Old Rasputin.

There are quite a few breweries here, actually, so I’ll have to come back sometime.

Tomorrow, I don’t know where I’m going, apart from eastward. So much depends on weather.

California

On New Year’s Day, I drove through Nevada. I wanted to make it all the way to Livermore, California in one day – possible, but a longer drive than I’d gotten used to. Instead of my usual leisurely pace of about 6 hours in a day, I was looking at 12. Nothing I haven’t done many times – just not this trip.

Area 51 has a gas station.

Area 51 has a gas station.

This put me on top of the Sierras well after sunset.

It’s cold on the Sierras. It’s dark. It’s empty. So of course, despite being pressed for time, shaking from what I thought was exhaustion and fatigue, I had to stop for just a few minutes.

The stars, when seen from that altitude, with the air clear from being cold and dry, can only be believed if seen. I’ve looked at pictures, too, of course, but none of them come even close to capturing the sheer awesomeness of the night sky from a high mountain range with no Earthly light to drown them out.

I stared into infinity.

Fortunately, it had the courtesy to not stare back, or they’d have found my cold, stiff body by now.

On the other hand, I can’t think of too many better ways to go.

Spoiler: I survived and made it to my friends’ house, where I promptly infected everyone there with a cold I didn’t even know I had until later the next day.

So I haven’t been doing much, this last week. Quick trip to the pit known as Stockton and to Lodi, which is much nicer than CCR would have you believe; I wouldn’t mind getting stuck there. One trip to San Ramon to a place with really, really good beer – but mediocre food, and way too many TV screens.

So many TV screens, in fact, that I made a discovery. I’m sure everyone reading this already knew about this, but remember, I don’t watch sports and I don’t have cable. So the only way I could be exposed to this atrocity was by sitting at a sports bar, which I also tend to avoid.

The discovery?

There exists a GOLF channel.

There is a channel, on cable, devoted entirely to GOLF.

I do believe that this is one of the signs of the apocalypse. Of course, as I write this, we’re watching a TV show where paint is drying – but that is less boring than the golf channel.

But I have the antidote, if only people will listen to me. And this is it:

There is desperate need for a Drinking Channel.

Think about it. We already have golf channels and fishing channels and probably channels devoted to grass growing. The Drinking Channel would be WAY more interesting than any of these. They could go into how various fermented and distilled beverages are made. They could spotlight a different brewer, vintner, or distiller every day. There could be bartenders making their favorite drinks, much as the cooking channel does with food. They could follow around some guy who’s trying to visit every brewery in the continental US.

There is NO downside with this.

“But it will promote drinking!” I hear from that little voice in the back row.

Why, yes. Yes, it will. That’s why there’s no downside to this.

Well, okay, one downside: Cable TV will soon go the way of the video rental store, and this is also a good thing. There could still be a Drinking Channel on the internet.

If I weren’t so lazy, I might even consider working for them.

Another Year, Another Beer

Now, look. I know some people have to travel with kids. I mean, sure, one of the reasons I like to hang out in casinos is there aren’t that many kids around being obnoxious. When I do see them, usually they’re being controlled by their parents lest they wander out onto the casino floor or into a bar and see adults actually having fun.

But then, sometimes, I espy a vile abomination such as this one.

One's bad enough, but now they're cloning them??!

One’s bad enough, but now they’re cloning them??!

After seeing the horrible visage of the mouthless one (twice, even though I was sober), I really, really needed a beer or six. Fortunately, there was Triple 7.

Beer at the bar. Bar beer. Beer bar.

Beer at the bar. Bar beer. Beer bar.

It is, as I post this, already 2014 back home, but here in Nevada there’s still over an hour to go, so I’m still in 2013.

New Year’s, of course, is traditionally a time of introspection, retrospection and whatever you call looking to the future spection. It’s also a time for getting drunk.

Because I’m a contrarian, I’m not drunk tonight. As for the other stuff, well, I’ve had a lot of time to think while I’ve been on the road, just me and the music and the scenery. I’ve thought about my triumphs and failures, wins and losses, and I thought about how I might work on improving myself in the coming calendar year. What I could do to make myself a better person, be more sociable, have more fun, do more things, be kinder to children and be a positive force in the world…

….nah, fuck it.

Too much like work.

Too much like work.

Hey, you got Chicago in my Vegas

So today I made a dangerous discovery.

That discovery is that there’s at least one brewpub in Las Vegas that is open and serving beer all day, every day. And all night. 24/7, as they say. I still don’t know why that expression annoys me, but it does.

Don't ask me why it's named Chicago. It's not cold, windy, or smelly.

Don’t ask me why it’s named Chicago. It’s not cold, windy, or smelly.

This is dangerous, of course, because I’m not one who believes there is a proper time of day to drink beer. It’s not just for breakfast, you know. Nor is there a proper time of day to not drink beer.

Oh, and did I mention the place also has a cigar lounge?

Why, again, do I not live in Nevada?

Oh, yeah, because I’d be broke in a week. Or possibly dead.

Many places here are open 24 hours, incidentally. There are, as far as I can tell, none of those silly laws about when you can or cannot buy or consume beer. Virginia has silly laws like that. Bars have to close by 2 am, if I recall correctly, and shops can’t sell beer between midnight and six am (though they may have changed that law recently – I don’t have to buy it at those hours because I’m usually stocked up). Haven’t run across much of anything like that in Vegas. Places seem to open and close when they feel like it. It makes finding snacks at 4 am much easier.

Anyway, I had a good day at the blackjack table. Good enough that I decided to try some Kobe beef. Well, not real Kobe beef from Japan, but the same kind of dead cow, only the cow, when it was alive, lived in Idaho. I’m not sure it lives up to the hype, but further research may be necessary.

Tomorrow, I’ll see if I can visit more brewpubs. I was here in August, but I got sick, which kind of puts a damper on the whole “tasting” part of beer tasting.

North Vegas

Had to get this pic as I was leaving Page:

Because I'm actually 12.

Slot. Canyon. Hummer. Adventures.

Sign me up!

Anyway, lots of long stretches of nothing today. Nothing, that is, except freaking amazing scenery.

Like this.

Like this.

And this.

And this.

And then, approaching Las Vegas, I saw the city shrouded in mist (okay, it’s probably smog. But I’ll call it mist.)

I'm now *breathing* that stuff.

I’m now *breathing* that stuff.

This afternoon, I found a hotel near a brewery. Though that’s rarely worked out for me before, I’m not one to learn from my mistakes. Fortunately, it’s a good hotel and a good brewery: Tenaya Creek. I was there during a brief visit to Vegas this summer, but it was so good I had to go again.

As an aside, Tenaya Creek doesn’t do food, so first I stopped at a taphouse (even closer to the hotel; both these places are in walking distance) called Aces & Ales. Amazing, absolutely stunning, beer selection – but my primary focus is, of course, visiting actual breweries.

Tenaya Creek does what a lot of places in Vegas do: they have video gambling at the bar. If you’re gambling, your drinks are “free.” I put “free” in quotes because like every other game in Vegas, it’s horribly slanted in favor of the house. And the more you drink, the more money you put into the gambling machine. Science proves this.

So, basically, I had the most expensive beer EVER.

Worth it.

Turn the Page

Rumors that I pick my daily stops for their pun potential are completely unfounded. Maybe.

But let’s first go back to Alamosa, where a weather report indicated that the overnight temperature would be dropping well below 0°F, which the temperature should never do. Ever. There are warmer places on freaking Mars right now.

But this was my dashboard as I was about to drive out of town:

NOPE

Nope.

Yeah, I just have one thing to say to that:

Yeah, that’s a great big tub full of NOPE.

Once I got out of that accursed valley, though, temperatures rose to a balmy mid-20s.

I passed through Pagosa Springs, Colorado, too early to do anything but take pictures of this too-hipster-for-words brewpub:

I'm sure you liked this one before it was cool.

It’s too small to see here, but Kermit the Frog is desperately trying to escape from the upper window.

I did, however, manage to make it to this one in Cortez, Colorado by lunchtime (at which point, by the way, the temperature had climbed up into the mid-50s):

Oh look, a brewery in Colorado! How rare! Not.

Never did find out what those orange cones were for.

I hung around this also unbelievably hipster town (I’m sensing a theme here for Colorado) for an hour or so, because at that point I really needed to a) stretch my legs and b) apologize to the glowing yellow thing in the sky for calling it “the accursed daystar” and thank it for making the temperature a little bit less NOPE.

The rest of the trip today took me through Ute and Navajo country once more; you may recall I went through it last year. In fact, this route took me right past the Four Corners monument, though I didn’t feel the need to stop there again.

On the road to Page, I encountered some more awesome scenery.

Clearly, I wasn't the sole visitor.

I hereby name this place the Valley of Lost Soles.

Upon reaching Page, which is a small town just south of the Arizona-Utah border, I looked for a place that would sell me some Navajo frybread, which is as good a reason as any to be alive and have taste buds. But there wasn’t any. Instead, I found something far, far more dangerous – a sushi bar within walking distance. Okay, well, the sushi part wasn’t so dangerous, but it was also a bar bar. And they had sake. And absinthe.

I don’t remember much after that, but apparently I made it back to the hotel, and the reason this post is later than usual is I had to wait until I only had one screen to look at.

I’m pretty close to Vegas, now, less than a day away. Unfortunately, my reservation there doesn’t start until Sunday afternoon. I still haven’t decided whether to find another place in Vegas for one night, or maybe stay somewhere else. You’ll find out tomorrow. Later today, I mean.

Remember the Alamosa!

A couple of days ago, my friend Elizabeth commented thus:

Probably, the best thing about crossing Kansas will be that, when you are done, you can say…. wait for it…. “I’m not in Kansas anymore.” Sorry if I stole that one from you but, hey, you’re better than that, right?

No, Elizabeth. No. I am NOT better than that. I was totally going to use that and now I can’t. Nor can I think of anything involving Toto, scarecrows, tin men, or yellow brick roads.

Still, this morning, I got the hell out of Dodge.

After a bit of the flat flatness that I was expecting out of Kansas and eastern Colorado, I started getting treated to views like this one:

The Rocky Road?

Plains, plains, plains, plains, MOUNTAINS.

Ended up in a town in Colorado called Alamosa.

I’d never even heard of Alamosa, so I had no real idea what to expect. Imagine, then, my joy when I discovered this, in downtown Alamosa:

Not that brewpubs are uncommon in Colorado

And the heavens opened and seven angels sang…

They know how to make beer in Colorado. I hear even Coors used to be good before it went national. Had lunch there, sampled a few of the brews, and found them pleasing.

Anyway, it turns out Alamosa’s a small college town along the Rio Grande (yes, the Rio Grande stretches up into Colorado), and it sits in a valley that’s about 7500 feet above sea level.

Water boils at about 198F at 7500 feet. I guess that doesn’t stop them from making beer.

No worries about water boiling tonight, though – the forecast calls for -10F overnight. So no, I won’t be leaving the heated hotel room. Not even for beer.

A Bit Dodgey

Everyone lied to me about Kansas.

“Oh, it’s nothing but flat. Flat, flat, flat as far as the eye can see. And then when you get to the edge of the flat, there’s more flat.”

Actual hills in actual Kansas

Does this look flat to you?

Oh, sure, the further west I progressed, the flatter it got, until here in Dodge City (Yes, that Dodge City) things are flatter than a first-time karaoke singer. But still, I’ve been in flatter places. Eastern Texas. Central Illinois. Hell, parts of Virginia are planier than the Plains.

Going to keep this short, because the most important thing I have to do today, now that I’ve procured a place to sleep, is watch the Doctor Who Christmas special. Luck seems to be holding out for me, as there’s still no snow or ice in the forecast. But forecasts have been wrong before…

Missouri Loves Company

Yes, I was up early enough to see a sunrise.

Look! A picture! Of a sunrise!

This morning, heading west from Cape Girardeau, I saw a column of flaming red light in my mirror. Sadly, it wasn’t Cape Girardeau on fire, but rather the rising of the accursed daystar. Unfortunately, the picture doesn’t really do it justice. But the column of red light isn’t a camera artifact; it was actually there in the sky. I’m just guessing, but I think the effect was the result of sunlight refracting through, or maybe reflecting off, atmospheric ice particles. Or both.

It was certainly cold enough to have atmospheric ice particles.

I made it to Springfield today, and called it quits there because I found a microbrewery.

Maybe Missouri isn't that bad after all.

An oasis of beer in a desert of Coke.

This place had a small, but wide, selection of beers – it wasn’t all IPAs like you find at some places. In fact, there wasn’t an IPA. The nod to the hopheads was in the form of a California-style American Pale Ale, which was actually pretty good. Personally, I thought their Doppelbock was most awesome, but it’s a seasonal beer for them.

Another reason on the plus side of traveling in the winter – breweries are more inclined to make darker beers.

As we all know, every state has a place named Springfield. It’s probably why The Simpsons named its town Springfield. I looked for a monorail, but didn’t find it.

What I did find was that Springfield, MO, among whatever other claims to fame it might have, was the birthplace of Route 66. That is, the push to make Route 66 an official thing in the highway system came from some dude in Springfield. I’m sure it only went through this city by pure coincidence.

So, of course, being a road geek, I had to stay in a Route 66 themed motel tonight.

I want the car.

It’s a cheap motel along Route 66. How could I not?

According to the motel‘s ever-changing sign, ELVIS (in all caps) stayed here in 1956. And on a cold, windy night, if you listen really, really hard, you can hear… the wind. So I don’t know if that’s true or not.

Route 66 itself, of course, was decommissioned in the 1980s, but it’s got enough history attached to it for localities to hold on to the past, however irrelevant it might be today. The Interstates made Route 66 obsolete, and even if it still existed, it wouldn’t be the Mother Road that it used to be. Most people see roads as a means of getting from one point to the next as quickly as possible, which is fine as far as it goes, but it means that a lot of the reason to travel on 66 disappears: the businesses and services dedicated to travelers.

Such services now cluster, lonely and bright and incorporated, around interstate exits. Such is change.

Still, one day, for historic reasons, I’d like to travel the length of the classic route, just to do it. Well, one of the classic routes, anyway. Like every other road, it was subject to numerous shifts and reroutes over the course of time.

This trip is not that day – when I do that, I’ll want to start in Chicago and go all the way, and plan it so I’m following as much of the original route as possible.

Of course, I’ve already been on portions of it; you may remember my post after leaving Winslow, Arizona a couple years back – that’s an example of a preserved section of 66 going through a town.

Still no snow in the forecast for the next couple of days, so I’m going to keep heading west. Now watch there be a blizzard.

Sharing the Missouri

Though I got an early start, and much of today’s journey was under sunny skies, I still don’t have any pictures.

Why?

Because it was boring, that’s why.

Not ugly, by any means, but the only thing on the route that stuck out – and it really was like a sore thumb – was the Jefferson Davis Memorial in Kentucky. Here’s a shot of it from Wikipedia:

Might have become the father of his country, but pulled out just in time.

Looks a *bit* familiar…

That’s right; it looks like the Washington Monument, only… gray. You could see it for miles.

To avoid further alienating Southern readers, I’ll shut up about it now.

Made it across the Mississippi today, to Cape Girardeau, Missouri – about which the best thing I can say is it’s not dry. Apparently, Missouri doesn’t have any dry counties, which surprised me. But the one place I did go to, I was like “So what kind of beer do you have,” and he was like “Both kinds. Bud and Bud Light.”

Yeah. I’ll have a Dr. Pepper.

The forecast continues clear over the middle states, so I’m going to keep heading vaguely west, rather than southwest. Looks like I can be in Springfield, MO around lunchtime tomorrow, and Springfield has an actual brewpub, so I may just crash there for Christmas Eve. After that… well… maybe I can cross Kansas in one shot; maybe not. Or maybe I’ll fall asleep trying.

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