*Author's Note*
This is a 4-part series that explains different themes from my vacation to Reno, Nevada. It is meant to resemble a stream of consciousness.
Travel
Droning. Endless droning. The jet engines consuming countless gallons of fuel as it propels us forward. As I look down, lakes turn to plains, which turn to hills, which turn to mountains as we head West.The mountains go on till what seems the end of the Earth. As they increase in size, they become capped with snow. Puffs of white soon engulf the mountain. Now, a winter wonderland with streaks of green and brown, the mountain itself peaking through the suffocating snow. We approach our destination, while the sun grows hot through the small portal in a plane they call a window. Nothing but a mere piece of glass and plastic. It focuses the light, heating the inside of the once cool aircraft. Now, the mountains are back. But something is different. No snow. They snow, melted by the sun, creates the run-outs cascading down the hill side. The majestic mountains now seem to weep a long winding trail that almost never ends, until the dry desert resumes. Now... we are out west.
Here is the strange part. A mystery not even I am sure of. As I peer out of the glass pane, I notice something that surely does not belong in the desert. An assortment of small buildings, which lead to three large hangers, followed by two extremely long runways. Could it be? The non-existing airfield in the Sierra Nevada? Area 51? A picture I had seen on a show the previous week was an exact clone of what I was seeing now. I even said to myself, "This is not it". But every inch of me said it was.
City
Finally! After what felt like an eternity sitting on that plane, we arrive. The hordes of people flowing out of the terminal suggests that this must be a busy time. Now we claim our baggage, and wait outside for the shuttle that will take us to the hotel. About 15 minutes later, we are on our way. The shuttle speeds to the destination on an empty highway. We pass billboards trying to get you to try, "Grand Sierra Resort's Luxury rooms!". others about political campaigns in which the candidates are enemies that will fight to the death for office, buffets, and casinos, the main attraction in Reno. Now we are in the heart of the city, mere ants beneath the towering monoliths, casting long shadows across the suburbs outlying the city center. Most buildings are restaurants, casinos, or hotels. The three things Reno is best known for. We exit the highway, and cross into rows of run-down homes. Reno isn't the only city hit by the depression, but it may be the worse.
After hours of travel, we arrive at the long awaited moment. The moment we enter our hotel, the Nugget. Two towers of an earthly tan, peppered with windows. Atop the main tower, a gleaming sign displaying Nugget in sparkling gold letters. Rows of light illuminate the monstrous letters, giving it a magical touch. A grand entrance fit for a king greets even the ones who can barely afford a weekend stay there. To meet us, an image of happiness, my grandmother. For the rest of our vacation, she's always there for us, and always willing to cart us around. Now, we are here.
Long Desert Road
Ahead, along the earthen ground and asphalt, an endless trail leading us to the haven known as Frenchman's Lake. A beautiful lake nestled in the mountains, surrounded by pine's of epic proportions. An image of heaven on earth. A lake, reflecting the trees and barely snow-capped mountains, stands as a symbol of joy and peace. But we are not there yet. The Subaru Forester packed with four people, ruggedly traverses the long road. A car passes us every minute or so. To our right, a broad hillside slowly leading up to the top of a hill at a slight incline. The bright tan hill is showered with sagebrush and various weeds. To our left, a mountain in all it's glory, majestically rising over everything. The tip, dipped in a snow white coating. The rest, a brown with greenish tint. It dwarfs everything except for it's fellow mountains, spitting images of it except for the size. The road, lined by these monoliths, goes on and on and on and on. The end is barely in sight, with the town of Chilcoot, a small town with a population of only 100.
As Chilcoot passes, we approach the final stretch. Hills disappear as we are engulfed by a massive canyon. An endless winding road, buried deep within the rock. To our left, a proud rock-face, standing tall and jagged above all. Our right, a bone-chilling drop that makes you want to look down, but at the same time, makes you look away. We pass forests, campgrounds, and streams as the lake nears. Only one more mile, says the blue sign, followed by a sign requiring a permit, another about firewood, and another about fireworks, and more and more signs pass. I'm sick of it. I want to look around, not at a saying saying "no", "you can't bring", "not allowed" or "permitted". Disgusting. I wait for them to pass, wait for the beauty of nature to come back. After rows of signs, nature returns to me.
The Lake
Breathlessness is all I could feel. I sat upon a stone uprising, jutting out of the ground. As I traverse the rugged terrain trying to find a surface I can sit upon, the breeze rustles my hair and blows the loose bit of shirt at my waist. The rock face offers a comfortable seat, and I take advantage of it. Gazing upon distant, yet monstrous mountaintops, I think about home, happiness, and life. Everything happening around me is tuned out. Silence, except for the wind, and the mountain. It talks to me, talks with me. It enters my mind, and leaves shortly thereafter. I wanted to talk back, but I couldn't. The distance blurs as the lake and plain beneath clear. Staring back at each other. looking into the eyes the lake has, and doesn't. Acting as a mirror, the mountain glances back at me one more time before it disappears forever. The mirror is interrupted by fly-fisherman. Their invisible poles yield a surprisingly large bounty of fish. They chat, their voices barely gracing my ear. A radio, placed on a rock by the beach plays country music, music that can not reach me. Before that, a plain. Not tall, not short, waves of desert grass sway in the breeze. It rolls, stops, jumps, and dancing with my mind. To me, a lifetime passes by, sitting there, thinking about anything that crosses my mind. The presence of nature's beauty leaves me without word; breathless.
Here is the strange part. A mystery not even I am sure of. As I peer out of the glass pane, I notice something that surely does not belong in the desert. An assortment of small buildings, which lead to three large hangers, followed by two extremely long runways. Could it be? The non-existing airfield in the Sierra Nevada? Area 51? A picture I had seen on a show the previous week was an exact clone of what I was seeing now. I even said to myself, "This is not it". But every inch of me said it was.
City
Finally! After what felt like an eternity sitting on that plane, we arrive. The hordes of people flowing out of the terminal suggests that this must be a busy time. Now we claim our baggage, and wait outside for the shuttle that will take us to the hotel. About 15 minutes later, we are on our way. The shuttle speeds to the destination on an empty highway. We pass billboards trying to get you to try, "Grand Sierra Resort's Luxury rooms!". others about political campaigns in which the candidates are enemies that will fight to the death for office, buffets, and casinos, the main attraction in Reno. Now we are in the heart of the city, mere ants beneath the towering monoliths, casting long shadows across the suburbs outlying the city center. Most buildings are restaurants, casinos, or hotels. The three things Reno is best known for. We exit the highway, and cross into rows of run-down homes. Reno isn't the only city hit by the depression, but it may be the worse.
After hours of travel, we arrive at the long awaited moment. The moment we enter our hotel, the Nugget. Two towers of an earthly tan, peppered with windows. Atop the main tower, a gleaming sign displaying Nugget in sparkling gold letters. Rows of light illuminate the monstrous letters, giving it a magical touch. A grand entrance fit for a king greets even the ones who can barely afford a weekend stay there. To meet us, an image of happiness, my grandmother. For the rest of our vacation, she's always there for us, and always willing to cart us around. Now, we are here.
Long Desert Road
Ahead, along the earthen ground and asphalt, an endless trail leading us to the haven known as Frenchman's Lake. A beautiful lake nestled in the mountains, surrounded by pine's of epic proportions. An image of heaven on earth. A lake, reflecting the trees and barely snow-capped mountains, stands as a symbol of joy and peace. But we are not there yet. The Subaru Forester packed with four people, ruggedly traverses the long road. A car passes us every minute or so. To our right, a broad hillside slowly leading up to the top of a hill at a slight incline. The bright tan hill is showered with sagebrush and various weeds. To our left, a mountain in all it's glory, majestically rising over everything. The tip, dipped in a snow white coating. The rest, a brown with greenish tint. It dwarfs everything except for it's fellow mountains, spitting images of it except for the size. The road, lined by these monoliths, goes on and on and on and on. The end is barely in sight, with the town of Chilcoot, a small town with a population of only 100.
As Chilcoot passes, we approach the final stretch. Hills disappear as we are engulfed by a massive canyon. An endless winding road, buried deep within the rock. To our left, a proud rock-face, standing tall and jagged above all. Our right, a bone-chilling drop that makes you want to look down, but at the same time, makes you look away. We pass forests, campgrounds, and streams as the lake nears. Only one more mile, says the blue sign, followed by a sign requiring a permit, another about firewood, and another about fireworks, and more and more signs pass. I'm sick of it. I want to look around, not at a saying saying "no", "you can't bring", "not allowed" or "permitted". Disgusting. I wait for them to pass, wait for the beauty of nature to come back. After rows of signs, nature returns to me.
The Lake
Breathlessness is all I could feel. I sat upon a stone uprising, jutting out of the ground. As I traverse the rugged terrain trying to find a surface I can sit upon, the breeze rustles my hair and blows the loose bit of shirt at my waist. The rock face offers a comfortable seat, and I take advantage of it. Gazing upon distant, yet monstrous mountaintops, I think about home, happiness, and life. Everything happening around me is tuned out. Silence, except for the wind, and the mountain. It talks to me, talks with me. It enters my mind, and leaves shortly thereafter. I wanted to talk back, but I couldn't. The distance blurs as the lake and plain beneath clear. Staring back at each other. looking into the eyes the lake has, and doesn't. Acting as a mirror, the mountain glances back at me one more time before it disappears forever. The mirror is interrupted by fly-fisherman. Their invisible poles yield a surprisingly large bounty of fish. They chat, their voices barely gracing my ear. A radio, placed on a rock by the beach plays country music, music that can not reach me. Before that, a plain. Not tall, not short, waves of desert grass sway in the breeze. It rolls, stops, jumps, and dancing with my mind. To me, a lifetime passes by, sitting there, thinking about anything that crosses my mind. The presence of nature's beauty leaves me without word; breathless.
