Zion National Park - Utah

Following the road into Zion National Park, I was thrumming with anticipation. I've been in so many amazing national parks lately that I have become rather jaded, but I had been eagerly looking forward to my visit to Zion. So many people had suggested it or mentioned it, that I had classified it as a compulsory stop on my journey.

The park was named for the Hebrew word meaning "refuge." It's easy to see why, with most of the park devoted to the passage of the Virgin River through the deep desert canyons it has carved into the rock. There is much to see here, and one day was not nearly enough to do it justice.

At first glance, water seems like the last thing you'd expect to find in the midst of all this dry, red, desert sandstone. A closer look at the swirling erosion patterns is more suggestive. This area is prone to flash flooding when the snows melt and the water level rises massively, scouring away the soft, porous rock.

The influence of water is everywhere. Here at the weeping wall, a short, but steep walk from the Weeping Rock shuttle stop, water drips continuously from above. Standing behind the curtain of water, the visitor can look back out into the park, through the steady trickle that continues to reshape the rock.

Amateur stratigraphy, the study of rock layers, is hard to avoid in Zion, where the strata are laid bare for all the world to see. Pale Navajo Sandstone rises above the distinctive red Springdale Sandstone of the lower formations.

The crumbly, scrub covered lower rock ledge is part of the Kayenta Formation. Kayenta mudstone commonly features dinosaur tracks and testifies to the age of these formations.

The grandiose, reverent language of Zion National Park extends to the names of the landmarks. The shuttle stops include Temple of Sinewava, Angels Landing, and Court of the Patriarchs. The surrounding mountains include The West Temple, Altar of Sacrifice, The East Temple, The Great White Throne and Mountain of Mystery. More than once I caught myself speaking in hushed, confessional tones and shying away from the loud, sacrilegious voices of some of the other visitors. There's something about overwhelming natural beauty that brings out a pompous junior librarian in some people. I was thus afflicted in Zion National Park.

Utah - Virgin

The road to Zion National Park runs along the Virgin River, through the small town of Virgin, Utah. Wikipedia reports a population of just 400 people at the last census, so don't blink as you pass through or you'll miss it altogether. Here is a typical Virgin residence.

You'll notice the marked absence of neighbours, as well as the moon, still visible at 10:30am.

The Virgin general store features a petting zoo and a model frontier town. I secretly wanted to go in and look around, but was too shy to pay the fee without a kid to hide behind. Instead, I bought a thoroughly grown-up CD of Native American flute music. I also admired some unusual plush toys made by Wishpets. I'd never seen such a cute, fluffy, yet surprisingly lifelike tarantula or scorpion before. I really wanted one of them too.

The model town boasts a very prominent jail (gaol) right in the main street. Knowing a little bit about Virgin, Utah from Michael Moore's 2002 documentary Bowling for Columbine, I wasn't surprised. This tiny town was mentioned in the film for the singular distinction of having passed a law in May 2000 which requires every homeowner to own and maintain a gun in the residence.

I didn't pause here long. I don't think I'm really a Virgin kind of girl.

Las Vegas Regained

I had planned to head directly from Grand Canyon West to my bed in Utah. However, I finished at the Canyon ahead of schedule, because there was nothing to do there. Instead of making an early start for my motel, I called Marcus and invited myself to his dinner with Walter in Las Vegas.

Walter turned out to be charming company, as well as an excellent source of free concert tickets. I was delighted to meet him, as well as to discover that he has pokies (slot machines) in his living room. Wow, a real live Las Vegas resident!

An otherwise perfectly enjoyable and normal dinner was made blogworthy by the involvement of Waitress Ratched. Our experience with her started out in more or less the usual way. She introduced herself as "Mrs Condescension," which is not her real name, but should have been. She has one of those annoyingly fake, sweet little girl voices that some people use to hide the fact that they're incredibly bossy and obnoxious. As the meal went on, it became apparent that she wasn't so much "taking care of us tonight" as "supervising the riff raff."

I don't know what caused this attitude. We were dressed reasonably well, and we could afford to pay. I don't think we looked like we were there to steal the silverware. We certainly weren't threatening to eat with our fingers, or belch loudly, or defecate at the table, or do any of the other things that she plainly feared. Perhaps she was concerned that we would cause harm to ourselves or others with the sharp implements because she took it upon herself to direct us to the proper method for doing almost everything. I have eaten out a lot, but never before has any waitress explained to me how to use the butter, or when to eat the bread, or just what vegetable I ought to be ordering.

Somehow we made it to the end of the meal without injuring ourselves (or her) with the salt shaker. By this stage we were collectively engaged in focused hatred of this officious bitch. I couldn't think of a way to complain about her because she hadn't been rude to us, hadn't openly insulted us and hadn't spilled anything on us. She was just a horrible person who looked at us like something she'd scraped off her shoe.

Then something miraculous happened. It was something so wonderful that the water in my glass magically transformed into nectar, ranneth over and washed me of all my pain. Proving that, even in a random universe, sometimes people get exactly what they deserve, Mrs Condescension screwed up. All my good deeds were rewarded, and hers punished, in the moment when she brought our bill (check) when we'd already asked someone for a dessert menu and waited ages for it. One of the sweetest moments of my life was the second after I politely requested that she take her filthy itemised invoice away and bring me a dessert menu at once, because I had already waited far too long. I used much more civilised language, of course, but I think my meaning was clear.

Mrs Condescension started channeling her slightly less evil twin Mrs Obsequious and I drove out of Las Vegas in a warm, triumphant fog of smugness. Alas, the forces of justice had not yet finished their work. To punish me for my joy at Mrs Condescension's suffering, they arranged for Marcus and Walter to have an utterly brilliant time seeing Penn and Teller perform live while I drove for hours to a second rate motel in southern Utah. Next time I will insist that Marcus complain about lousy service instead of doing it myself.

Big ditch, big dreams

After I'd rattled the dust puff back along the endless dirt road away from Grand Canyon West, being back on a sealed surface felt like flying as I headed back towards civilisation. I had slowed to the requisite crawl to pass through the small town of Dolan Springs when I saw something rather odd: a man wearing a brightly coloured shirt and a large black and white jester's hat was cavorting by the side of the road, jumping up and down and waving his arms. What could this be about?

I decided that he was probably harmless. It would be an unusual axe murderer who made such a blatant display. So I pulled over to investigate.

It turns out he's a lovely fellow who was trying to draw attention to the grand opening of his new store. I was their first customer.

It's a funky little place, run by two friendly fellow travellers who have decided to settle here and open a store. Why not?

I bought two things. The first was an orange handbag for my Ant Candy, who loves everything orange. I explained to my new friends that my awesome and outrageous Ant Candy was really the first benefactor of their store and that I would deliver her purchase when I eventually pass through Denton, Texas again.

The second was a beanie that looks like a cactus. Sometime when winter arrives I am confident that someone will take a picture of me wearing this ridiculous item and I will post it on the blog for everyone to enjoy.

If you're ever heading for Grand Canyon West, try to stop here. The store is on the left just after you turn off the main road into Dolan Springs. It used to be an auto shop, so although it's been repainted, it's still a small rectangular building. Say hi for me!

Grand Canyon West - Indian Village

An additional attraction at Grand Canyon West is the Indian Village, a collection of recreated traditional Native American dwellings from various tribes and periods.

The wikiup is a Hualapai dwelling made of juniper timber, brush and earth. The walls and floors were lined with animal skins. The dwellings were often constructed on a large scale for whole family groups. Sweat lodges were used for healing and as clubhouses by the men of the tribe.

The tipi of the Plains Indians is well suited to the nomadic lifestyle. Buffalo hide lining on the inside provides warmth in winter. The conical shape is intended to reflect nature's perfect form. Fires were built in the centre and smoke escaped through the hole in the top.

The Navajo Tribe built Hogans like this one. It is traditionally built of wood and mud, spiritual materials because they are part of the earth. The wood must not come from trees that have been struck by lightning because objects struck by lightning are said to have lost their spirit. The entrance always faces east because goodness and prosperity are associated with the dawn of a new day. The male Hogan is pointy with a hole in the top, like the one above. The symbolism is more apparent when you see the female Hogan.

The female Hogan is rounded, like big breasts.

The houses of the Hopi are more substantial. The stone and mortar is plastered and whitewashed, with clay used to connect the structural elements. This form of construction readily allowed the Hopi to dismantle or extend on structures. It's nice to think that the Hopi invented Lego.

Grand Canyon West

Whenever I told anyone about my last visit to the Grand Canyon, without fail someone asked me if I went on the Skywalk. I patiently explained that I had visited the South Rim and the Skywalk was in another part of the canyon. Gradually, as this conversation was repeated over and over, I started to feel like I had missed something important by missing this Skywalk thingy. Perhaps I’d somehow failed to have the essential Grand Canyon experience.

Thus it was that the Cream Puff came to be rattling along 11 miles of an unsealed, corrugated, dusty “road” to Grand Canyon West, which is part of the lands of the Hualapai Nation.

Despite the vigorous wind, the dust of the drive still managed to cling to the car, which I temporarily renamed Dust Puff . The headache I developed on the drive also stuck with me for the rest of the day. I was now very tired, after three days of entertaining guests in Fresno, then the farewell party, the long day in Death Valley and the long night in Las Vegas. I didn’t realise how exhausted I really was until I found myself trying to pay the entrance fee to Grand Canyon West with my NRMA membership card. While I waited in the sun for the shuttle bus to the various attractions, I resolved not to get too close to the edge of the canyon in case I had some kind of narcoleptic episode and fell to my death.

The first shuttle stop was at the Skywalk that I’ve been feeling so inadequate about. There’s a lot of construction going on up there at the moment, so at first glance it doesn’t look particularly inspiring. In fact, even at second glance it doesn't. It probably won't look much better when they've finished building the resort they're working on.

Actually getting onto the Skywalk is quite an ordeal. First you have to lock everything you own, including your camera, in a locker. No cameras are allowed on the Skywalk. The stated reason is to avoid the risk of dropped items scratching the glass. Really? I can put it on a strap around my neck. If my neck hits your floor you have bigger problems than scratched glass. I suspect the real reason is so that tourists can't take any uncontrolled photos. You can, of course, purchase "professional" photographs of yourself on the Skywalk, which feels rather exploitative, especially when you've just paid $80 and driven for hours just to get there.

The Skywalk is also disappointingly small. You look at the statistics and see that it's a glass walkway extending 20 m out from the cliff and you think "Wow, that's impressive." Then you stand on it and think, "Wow, did they start measuring from the car park?"

Visitors are issued with little shoe coverings to prevent scratches to the glass and prevent slipping. No other tourists were on the Skywalk when I approached it. I smiled at each of the security guards I passed, put on my little booties and shuffled out onto the Skywalk.

It didn't feel like walking on air, or flying. It felt like walking on a very solid and secure transparent surface. There was one cool moment when I looked straight down, from the very outer part of the Skywalk. For a second I felt vertigo and thought "Okay, that's a long way down." Then I looked back up and realised that I'd just done the whole Skywalk in about 5 seconds.

Feeling a bit ripped off, having just paid $80 for this thrill, I shuffled back around the Skywalk in the other direction. I might as well get a whole minute's entertainment out of it. I hung around at the outermost point for a little while and admired the canyon until I tired of communing with the view while security watched over me like an Eagle Rock.

This is not the best angle from which to identify the eagle. The best angle is visible only from the dusty windows of the shuttle bus, or from closer to the verboten cliff edge. With a bit of imagination you can see the main part of its body in the centre of the shot, the span of its wing to the right and part of the wing to the left.

The coolest sight in Grand Canyon West is actually this abandoned guano mining equipment. Guano (bat manure) deposited in caves in the face of the cliff on the other side of the canyon was extracted, then winched across to this station. Guano is useful in the production of fertiliser and gunpowder. I advise you never to allow an open flame near a bat, just in case. When the guano mine was closed down, the cables remained stretched across from the canyon until a military pilot did a quick run through the canyon for kicks and tangled his aircraft up in the bat poo lines. The cables were then dropped down into the canyon, where they remain.

Hoover Dam

For the longest time the Colorado River flowed along its 1400 mile course from the Rocky Mountains in Colorado to the Gulf of California without any regard for the needs of the human beings who lived and farmed along its banks. Even in the 1800s and early 1900s, when the population was substantial, the river would often overflow its banks in spring, flooding farmland and communities. In the long, dry summer and early autumn (fall) the river would dry almost to a trickle that was useless for irrigation. Obviously, the river could not go on so flagrantly ignoring the desire of the humans for flood protection and a stable, year-round water supply. The humans would just have to take control of the river.

Before they could do that, the humans needed to take control of themselves. The river served seven states at that time (not counting Mexico, which wasn't important anyway). The seven states sent representatives to negotiate with the federal government and they created the Colorado River Compact in 1922. The agreement divided the Colorado River Basin into an upper and lower half, giving half the annual estimated flow to each (leaving nothing for Mexico until the Mexican Water Treaty 22 years later).

This compact allowed for the creation of several storage dams along the Colorado River and, in 1928, Congress passed the Boulder Canyon Project Act, which authorised construction of Hoover Dam.

The project was a public / private partnership (PPP) in which a private contractor borrowed money from the government to build the dam and proposed to repay the loan with revenue from production of hydroelectricity. Unlike the NSW toll road system this particular PPP actually worked extremely well. Construction began in 1931 and the last concrete was poured in 1935. Even with the remote location and difficult conditions, the contractor completed the project two years ahead of schedule and well under budget. Macquarie Bank take note! The sale of Hoover Dam power repaid, with interest, the Boulder Canyon Project’s original $165 million cost. Today all the costs of maintaining and operating the dam are covered by the sale of hydroelectricity.

Hoover Dam was the biggest and best dam of its day and remains world-famous even now. Although modern dams are often taller or generate more power, Hoover Dam has star appeal and attracts over 1 million visitors each year, including me. It’s also a very cool wonder to build if you’re playing Civilisation. From 1939 to 1949 Hoover Dam was the world’s largest hydroelectric installation. To this day Hoover Dam generates more than 4 billion kilowatt-hours a year, which is enough to serve 1.3 million people. Okay, so that’s a small proportion of the people living in this part of the world, but it’s still a lot for an elderly dam.

This is one of the big pipes that channels water from inside the dam’s reservoir, through the power plant, and out the other side of the wall.

The walkways inside the concrete dam wall feel a little spooky, and not just because of the bars and rough finish. This is an arch gravity dam, meaning it is held together by it’s own weight and curve. There isn't so much as a piece of used chewing gum holding up this room, and the big wall all around it, despite the massive pressure of the water.

These are the turbines. The lights on at the top indicate that they are currently generating power. Above them you can just see the crane unit with the flag hanging from it. They use this, and its twin to lift up the generators for maintenance.

Here is the famous curved wall. It’s kind of exciting to drive over, even if you have to submit to the possibility of being randomly selected to have your car searched for explosives before you cross.

This is view from the observation deck down to where the turbines do their thing. Power comes out through the giant cables and the water comes out through the bottom where you see that turbulence in the water.

Since September 11, 2001 it has no longer been possible for tourists to walk out across this walkway to the intake tower and see the historical exhibits that used to be housed there. The exhibits have been moved and a barrier erected to keep visitors out. It all looks too robust to be done in by a backpack bomb, but what do I know? Nothing, I guess, except that I wasn't allowed to walk out there, even though I didn't have a backpack, or a bomb.

No story of American triumph over nature would be complete without a cute animal. The Hoover Dam work crew adopted a puppy that they found at the construction site and made him their mascot. The puppy lived with them and hung out with them all day while they worked. When the dog was accidentally killed by one of the trucks, the workers interred him at the site and erected a modest monument.

Thus the mighty river and the loyal doggy were both tamed by the humans, and the doggy rests in peace by the still waters of Hoover Dam.

Las Vegas Lost

Upon Leaving Las Vegas early in the morning I had time to reflect on all the things I hadn't seen while I was there. There were at least a couple of compulsory Las Vegas experiences that had not made it onto my agenda.

I hadn't, for example, taken the opportunity to visit the Little White Chapel's drive up wedding window. Now I will never know if the celebrant says "You may kiss the bride. Would you like fries with that?"

I also didn't visit the Graceland Chapel, which offers just some of the many Elvis weddings available in Las Vegas. That's something I'll probably never again have the opportunity to do. Now that I think about it, I only saw one Elvis the whole time I was there. He was standing next to Marilyn Monroe on the pedestrian footbridge near Caesar's Palace. Possibly Las Vegas is the reason that 13 percent of Americans believe that Elvis is still alive. They go to The Strip, get really drunk, see Elvis and become subconsciously convinced that he's still around.

I didn't see a Las Vegas Cirque du Soleil show. Okay, so I've seen a few Cirque shows in Sydney, but they do seem to have colonised The Strip in an extraordinary way. I counted no fewer than five different offerings available at various different glamorous venues.

The biggest oversight of all, naturally, is that I didn't place a single bet. It hardly seems fair to say I've been there.

Las Vegas - The Strip

Entertainment event number 3 of 3 was a long walk up and down The Strip. We started walking a little after midnight and, although we'd had an early start and a late night before, we still had plenty of enthusiasm for the project. This was, in some ways, the most important part of the visit. This was the real Las Vegas that I'd heard about and read about and seen in the movies.

I tried, unsuccessfully, to summon up some fear and loathing. The best I could manage was a sort of baffled distaste for the relentless offerings of pictorial "business card" handouts for sex workers. If you're going to advertise prostitution on the main street, then why bother putting little coloured circles over the nipples in the photographs? Sin City might be a little conflicted there.

We strolled past and through some of the big hotel/casinos for a little over two hours. Keeping us company were a couple of thousand ladies of the night and a few thousand more tourists, of whom I estimate 75% were male. The bright lights and the surprising smell of sewage added to the surreality of the landscape.

So did the many monuments and statues that jumble together in a strange, semiotic frenzy. The mini Statue of Liberty outside New York, New York, stared fixedly across the street at the MGM Grand's lion. The lion haughtily ignores her, like a sulking sphinx, puffing out its chest towards Excalibur. In Las Vegas, Liberty looks to the lion and the lion to the sword.

I looked at my watch. It was about this time of night just a few months ago that a Las Vegas resident went postal at New York, New York and started shooting people from an overhead walkway. Nobody died, although several people were injured. Some guests and security staff banded together to tackle and restrain the shooter. The casino never missed a beat. It must have been terrifying, although I suspect that in this litigious age the victims were the biggest winners that the casino has seen for quite some time. The gag clause alone must have been worth a tidy fortune.

Somehow, standing here, it seems perfectly possible that people could just turn back to their preferred poison as if the rules of civilisation had not just been shockingly violated right in front of them. Perhaps the veneer of civilisation has worn thin in this place, with just a couple of coloured circles printed between the human and the animal.

Yet look at the symbols of civilisation invoked all around. Paris: city of the Enlightenment, birthplace of the modern concept of liberty.

Greece: the fertile land to which modern Western Philosophy traces its ancestry. The Trojan Horse, symbol of dangerous pride and the fall of a great civilisation, bows its head just a few casinos away.

Rome, a mighty empire remembered for its decadent collapse as much as for its military conquest and technological superiority.

The Bellagio, of course, is the big pop culture tourist destination. It was made instantly famous by being record breakingly expensive to build, at a cost of $1.6 billion. The casino's reputation for elegance and free fountain displays further inspire the imagination of visitors. Alas, we were too late to see the fountains dance in the giant lake at the front of the building. It you're feeling left out, as I did, you can check out some video here. The sequential Oceans films and the reputation of the high stakes Poker Room, known as "The Office" to many high rollers, also contribute to The Bellagio's status on The Strip. One of the comedians in the show we saw that night suggested another possible attraction. He was talking about prostitutes in Las Vegas and said "They hang out down at the Bellagio, you know, where they have their office."

I enjoyed my visit, and my stroll along The Strip, admiring all the bling, from the ceilings that look like the sky, to the giant moving neon signs. There is no doubt in my mind that Las Vegas is a great place to come for an intense burst of entertainment. Whether you want to gamble, shop, see amazing live shows, peel back the coloured circles on the business cards, or just walk around soaking up the atmosphere, Las Vegas will provide for you. It's a full service town.

Still, after just one long night in the embrace of Las Vegas, I felt strung out and strangely let down. It's the overstimulation comedown, like the crash that follows a caffeine or sugar rush. It's a reminder that the human central nervous system is not designed to handle so many kilowatts. Most people will just go home, hung-over, overtired and overspent. Sometimes a fuse will blow, and someone will start shooting from an overhead walkway.

Las Vegas powers on regardless, like the Luxor spotlight: the brightest beam in the world, extending a single digit to the heavens.

Las Vegas - The Comedy Stop

Entertainment event number 2 of 3 for my one night in Las Vegas was the late show at The Comedy Stop at the Tropicana. It was a good show, featuring three comics.

Mike Reynolds was the MC and warm up act, but he was great value all by himself. He reminded me strangely but consistently of my old friend Llama in Australia. Even in a short and interrupted set he gave me something I was definitely not expecting: a genuinely new masturbation joke. Mike expressed his amazement, considering how much men masturbate, that handshaking is as common as it is. I almost fell off my chair. Perhaps, he wondered, that could be why the Japanese bow. (Japanese accent) "Oh no," (bowing), "You jerk off too much." (end Japanese accent)

My favourite Mike Reynolds gag was about the price of fame and being recognised in the street. For example, there was an Asian woman who shouted his name as he walked along a busy boardwalk. "Mike Reynolds!" He turned and waved. "Mike Reynolds!" What could this woman possibly want? "Mike Reynolds!" He walked closer and realised that she was shouting "Bike Rentals."

The second comic was another guy whose name I'd never heard. That doesn't mean they're not famous. I'm from the other side of the world, remember? Chris Coccia was one of my favourite things in the world, a genuinely likable comic. He wasn't a high status comic who always has to be clever, and he wasn't a low status comic who always has to play dumb. He was just a really nice guy who told funny stories on stage. He could be my neighbour, if my neighbour was a whole lot more cool and funny.

Having spent so much time on the road lately I loved all his material about road travel, especially the stuff about road works: "It actually merges into no lanes! You know the bit I'm talking about? It's a V. I had to vaporise my car and reform it on the other side." I've been on that road ... twice. "I hate merges too because they should work. Everyone should slip in and boom, we're all on the way. But there's always that one guy who tries to go as far as possible before he moves in. You know that guy? The winner of the merge."

He also did some cool material about male/female relations: "I was at the mall the other day and I caught my wife checking out another guy. You know what I mean? Yeah. I said to her "Honey if you do that 7,000 times that's it, we're even.""

The headliner was Mitchell Walters. He was slick and funny and got big laughs, but he was actually my least favourite of the three performers. It isn't that his set wasn't good. It's just that his style of humour doesn't charm me in the same friendly way as Chris Coccia, or the giggly enjoyment of Mike Reynolds. Mitchell Walters did have a few great riffs about his partner's teenage kids, like finding a stash of marijuana and being horrified by its poor quality. "If she paid for that she's being punished."

He did have one unusual gimmick. He could name the telephone area codes for every neighbourhood in the United States. Any hometown that anyone called out from the audience, he could name the area code. I thought I'd stump him when I called out "Sydney, Australia." He didn't miss a beat. "Australia? No phones."

Mike Reynolds came back on to wrap up the show and told another joke that I really liked. He was talking about the price of a Hooker in Las Vegas. He said he had attempted to hire a prostitute who told him that the rate for full service was $3,000. "Really?" He asked. "How much for self service?"

I think we got the best deal on the strip by seeing this show for just $15 each.

Las Vegas - Willie Nelson

One of the things I had decided I wanted to do here was go to a Willie Nelson concert at the Hard Rock Hotel and Casino, Las Vegas. No mere cafes in this town, I guess.

I'm not sure why the idea of seeing Willie Nelson perform live captured my imagination the way it did. I wouldn't ever have described myself as a particular fan of his music. Perhaps it's because he's such an iconically American symbol. His show was the best fit for the purpose of my journey. It's also about familiarity, I suppose. Although I was never into Willie Nelson, somehow he osmotically got into me. Here he is singing "Always on my Mind" 25 years ago. I was 4 years old. I know his voice so well without ever having had to seek it out. I know the words to so many of his songs without having made a conscious effort to hear them. Willie Nelson is in the jukebox of my mind, the soundtrack of my life, and now I wanted to see him in the flesh.

I had mentioned this desire to Marcus when I first discovered that the concert and my visit would coincide. He suggested that before I commit to a $52 standing room only ticket he would call his friend Walter, who lives in Las Vegas, and see if he could get me a better deal. It took a few days, but Walter came through in the best possible way. He managed to score us two tickets for free! Walter, you're a Road Trip Angel.

We trotted into the Hard Rock's music venue, appropriately named "The Joint," only slightly late and slightly out of breath. As a side note, it took so long for the show to start that we could have stopped for dinner and dessert and still made it for the first song.

We milled around at the back with the rest of the riff raff in the standing room only section, jockeying for a spot with a good view. Meanwhile the rich people who had actually paid for seats (and every seat was full) trampled back and forth over us to get to the bar.

To keep us from getting impatient and storming the stage there were giant screens mounted on either side of the stage. The screens displayed text messages or pics sent from the mobile (cell) phones of audience members. A special number was posted up on the screens and whatever nonsense people sent to it was writ huge on the LED. There were a lot of "Luv ya Willie!" style messages. There were also a lot of "James loves Linda" type messages. Some were simply incomprehensible. My favourite was a pic of a Willie Nelson lookalike in the audience with the caption "Free Willie."

Finally the house lights went down and the stage lights went up. Willie and the gang came out onto the stage and launched straight into the first song. It was ... awful. Honestly, it sounded absolutely terrible. The sound was appalling, Willie's guitar "Trigger" sounded woefully out of tune, the vocal was way off and the whole experience thoroughly sucked.

We shuffled our feet and looked at each other with embarrassment. There's something rather awkward about watching a big star go down hard, especially one I quite like and who I know probably needs the money. After three or four songs I wondered "Why haven't his handlers crucified the sound guy?"

Strangely, the rest of audience didn't seem to register discomfort. They were cheering and clapping and whooping and singing along. Were they at the same show as us? Was it perhaps my head that was out of tune? No, it's just that these people are the true believers. They just about screamed the roof off when Willie toasted the audience and took a sip from his drink. It didn't matter what he did. It didn't matter that the sound guy appeared not to have shown up for work so the janitor was filling in. The Willie in their head drowned out the one on the stage and the travesty went on to riotous applause.

Then, suddenly and inexplicably, the sound improved. On one song the guitar sounded like an amplified instrument of torture. On the next song it sounded like Trigger has sounded for years. One more song and someone fixed Willie's vocal track. That's when we realised that Willie still has it. The show was good! It was great! The old songs were classics and the new songs were fun.

One song that I hadn't heard before made me laugh out loud. The first verse was:

"You used to laugh at all my jokes although you'd heard them all before
But you don't think I'm funny anymore.
I used to fake a heart attack and fall down on the floor
Even I don't think that's funny anymore."

It got a big laugh and the audience went nuts. Of course, they went nuts for everything. Through it all Willie played on, professional and stoic, but with pleasure. He played to the fans too, tossing bandannas to the audience. He must have put on about 15 of them during the show, worn them for a song or two, then thrown them into the crowd where fans wrestled happily for possession of sweat from the sacred brow.

The show turned out to be so good that we even bought a souvenir bandanna. Having considered leaving a lousy show after only a few painful songs, we were now faced with the prospect of having to sneak out of an awesome show so that we would make it to our next planned activity. We lingered for one song longer than we should have, then another, and another. Finally we simply could not wait any longer and rushed out the door to grab a cab before the mass exodus.

On reflection, I suspect the exodus would not have come. Everyone would have lingered in the hope of getting an autograph. If we didn't have somewhere else to be in five minutes time then I would have done the same thing.

Arriving Las Vegas

My one previous visit to Las Vegas (airport only) was by air, so that I was magically dropped into the centre of the experience. The road approaching from the west was not at all how I imagined it. Somehow in my mind the famous Strip existed by itself, rising in splendid isolation from the desert. Of course, it could not be so.

Any city, particularly a tourist focused city, needs an army of people to keep it running. Those people, like the casino dealers, bar staff, neon repairers and prostitutes have to live somewhere, along with all the butchers, furniture retailers, hairdressers and dentists who serve them. That place is the suburbs, which look like suburbs anywhere and sprawl westwards towards the mountains.

I had caught glimpses of tall buildings in the distance for a while, but the first sight that my brain registered as being The Strip came from a bridge over a major freeway. We were trying to force the Cream Puff across four lanes of traffic to get onto the entrance ramp, which Thelma had neglected to mention until the last millisecond, and suddenly it was there. Even in the glare from the setting sun, it glowed. The Strip. Vegas!

We actually crossed The Strip to get to the hotel, right next to the Tropicana. The Tropicana! The one from Diamonds are Forever! Wow, can it really be that old? It's a wonder it's still standing.

The hotel was right across the street from the MGM Grand. One of the three that George Clooney robbed in Oceans Eleven! So cool. I'm in pop reference heaven. Blogger paradise.

Of course, we were far too pressed for time to appreciate any of the splendour around us. We had tickets for a show that was supposed to start in about twenty minutes and we hadn't eaten ... and we probably weren't going to.

We quickly checked into our hotel room, which boasts such strange features as an ashtray for non-smokers.

Then we immediately set out on foot to walk the couple of blocks to see the show. We didn't realise at the time that a block in Las Vegas is a very, very big thing. A venue a few blocks away when time is short is a distance best approached by taxi, or possibly by helicopter. We also had to pause for some kind of food. After doing Death Valley on an empty stomach I was feeling distinctly in need of nourishment.

Incredibly, just one block off The Strip is a dark wasteland of empty, fenced off lots. Just around the corner was a neon wonderland that is visible from space, yet we were in a ghost town; a ghost town that was abandoned before they'd even started building it. The only food that presented itself along the way was another Snickers at a convenience store. It's a good thing they really satisfy.

Death Valley - Badwater Basin

How low can you go?


Here Marcus and I visited what I hope will be the lowest point in our lives.

I was tempted to start up a game of limbo with the other tourists. Every one of us could have beaten our personal best by at least several dozen metres. Alas it was simply too hot to contemplate. Someone would have passed out and created yet another opportunity for a bad "low moment" joke. We certainly didn't need any more of those.

Technically the lowest point in the basin is a few miles to the west. Visitors are discouraged from going there because the crust is fragile and dangerous to traverse, so the sign is posted at this point, almost as low.

The water of Badwater isn't actually bad, just misunderstood. Saltier than the ocean, it is certainly bad to drink, but it is fit for its own purpose. It supports both plant and animal life, including the brilliantly named Badwater Snail.

From this point where I was too hot to limbo, some crazy people actually start a foot race, except that they do it in July - peak summer. The Badwater Ultramarathon was conceived as a race between the lowest point (Badwater) and the highest point (Mt Whitney) in the contiguous United States. For various complicated reasons that you can read about for yourself in the Wikipedia entry, the course has been shortened to end at at Whitney Portal, the trailhead to Mount Whitney, although competitors are encouraged to continue to the summit once they have finished the "official" race. The event is by invitation only and bills itself as "the world's toughest foot race," which it probably is. The official course is 215 km (135 mi) starting here at 85 m (282 ft) below sea level and ending at an elevation of 2548 m (8360 ft). Personally, I'm just happy that I made it back up the stairs to the Cream Puff.

Death Valley - Devil's Golf Course

The Devil's Golf Course was my favourite stop in Death Valley. It is a rock hard, gnarled jumble of salt and mud pinnacles.



The rough outcroppings are created when brine in a deeper layer of mud is evaporated. The high mineral content was deposited by ancient salt lakes and is added to by floods that still sometimes cover the floor of the basin. Wind and water erosion continue to shape the salt crystals in a pattern that is ever changing, but appears solid and permanent. Believe me, those lumps are hard. I knelt on a couple to take photographs and they hurt my knees.

The Devil's Golf Course is also a good example of promotional language becoming place names in Death Valley. It was named for part of a 1934 National Park Service guide book to Death Valley, which said that "Only the devil could play golf" on this surface.



Encouraged by the description of this weird landscape as being covered with "almost pure table salt," we simply had to taste the Devil's Golf Course.



The verdict? Saltier than Vegemite, but I wouldn't want to spread it on my toast.

Although I have given the official line above about the ongoing source of the salt, I do have an alternative theory. I think the Devil's Golf Course may be sustained, and even expanded, by the sweat of tourists. I personally deposited several drips of highly saline sweat from which almost all of the water had evaporated before it even hit the ground. Here sweat doesn't have time to make your clothes feel damp before it swirls away into the amazing humidity vacuum of the desert, leaving the tourist, and the Devil's Golf Course, caked with salt crystals. I know that you're supposed to take nothing away from a National Park, but I didn't feel bad about eating the salt here. I'm confident that Death Valley made a net salt gain from my visit.