Beaker Chronicles

Wyoming is known for its breathtaking natural beauty. We visited Yellowstone during our 2006 trip, and this time around all I saw of the state was the view from Interstate 80.

I woke up in Evanston, where the temperature had neared 30 degrees overnight. Loading my two guitars, my suitcase and my satchel into the car, I departed with essentially no impressions of the town except for the fact that I knew I was finally in truck country.

Those who grew up in urban environs might think it's a stereotype that most people who live in rural areas drive trucks. It's absolutely true. And for the most part these people need to trucks to do things like to get around a large ranch area or haul construction equipment. Or pull a horse trailer. Or serve as the setting for a rather on-the-nose country song about redneck seduction rituals.

It's partly because trucks are such useful tools (and actually used as such out here), and partly because they are regarded as large powerful and durable, that they have become emblems for American masculinity. Men love their trucks--sometimes too much, as those Calvin-peeing-on-Ford's-logo stickers amply demonstrate.

Those are pickup trucks of course. The other half of the vehicles you see on the road in wyoming are 18 wheelers. Or 22 wheelers or 26 wheelers. There seems to be no end of unusual permutations of the tractor trailer configuration out here, and they all seem to be going to hell for leather somewhere. Many of them are in a hurry because they are hauling something away from a fracking well site, perhaps actual natural gas, perhaps toxic waste water or other chemical byproducts. Time is money of course and the drillers aren't going to waste either one. Nearly all the tractor trailers out here are a quilt with antelope bars that protect the headlights and radiator grill from impact with cloven hooved animals. It makes me feel a little bit like I'm driving in Australia and honestly I was a little relieved when I finally hit Iowa and they disappeared.

I spent much of the day chasing freight trains as they headed into Cheyenne-- no surprise really considering that cheyenne is the headquarters of Union Pacific, the largest railroad in the United States. Frankly I was excited to visit Cheyenne because it brought back memories for me.

Yes, I was a train freak as a kid. My father took me to Railfair at the California State Railroad Museum in Sacramento, and I became acquainted with just about every steam locomotive still operating in the country. Somewhere there are photos of a 9-year-old Jeremy beaming from ear to ear standing on the  cowcatcher of one of these huge locomotives.

Why do I mention all of this? Because Union Pacific owns two of these big relics, and still operates them on special occasions. I didn't get to see those, but I couldn't resist visiting their cousin. Engine number 4004 sits on display in a small municipal park just a few blocks from the massive rail yard where it once pulled freight trains. It's part of the last generation of American steam locomotives, and just about the largest ever made. Built in 1941, it weighs about 1.2 million pounds, has 16 driving wheels each as tall as me, and it logged more than 440,000 miles over 17 years of service.

Who cares, right? Well, steam engines are just more fun to watch. They're almost like living creatures, while diesels do the job efficiently and without any fuss.

So the 9-year-old still hovering in the recesses of my brain was thrilled to see the old train. But the 30-year-old me is unspeakably relieved that I left childish fascinations at the door of adolescence. They call adult rail fans "foamers." As in "foaming at the mouth."

I had no desire to stop and photograph the immense Union Pacific railyard on my way out of town. That nostalgia trip lasted for half an hour and then it was behind me, like the bold "UP" badges on the locomotive shops and the towering refinery chimneys that take the place of skyscrapers in Cheyenne. I had another 500 miles to go before bed.

The first day of my trip was a day for familiar sights and sounds. I woke up in the house where I spent my entire childhood and had breakfast with my parents on the porch.

I got a late start but after spending the previous day driving back and forth from the Bay Area, that was not very surprising.

So around 12:30 p.m., it was out of Paradise, winding down Clark Road into the valley going to Highway 70 into Oroville and to Sacramento. This is a route I have driven countless times before.

I had with me the old metal cd case that held all of the albums I listened to in high school. Because I am a cultural anachronism, they were all rock music from the sixties and seventies.

So on played the Beatles' White Album, Caravanserai by Santana and Axis: Bold as Love by Jimi Hendrix.

And as the golden dead grass and stately oaks of the Central Valley gave way to the foothills of the Sierra Nevada with their digger pines, John, Paul, George and Ringo sang songs like "Rocky Raccoon" and "Glass Onion" and "Cry Baby Cry" -- all of which were the soundtrack to I can't count how many teenage camping trips.

I can still remember the summer when my best friend discovered the White Album and exposed the rest of us to it. It expanded what we knee the Beatles to be and also expanded what we thought rock music could be. Since we never heard any of these songs on the radio, we felt that we had discovered something secret and wonderful.

So as I ascended into the Sierra Nevadas, into that rarefied realm where you round a bend, look back toward the valley and the whole world looks like it's made of green pipe cleaners, I felt that a rush of familiarity -- the promise almost that I was bound for another of these lazy, goofy outings like no time had passed.

But there are a dozen dead seasons between then and now, and instead of going to swim in some secret hole in the woods or camp at a music festival, I was just leaving; for a small apartment in a four-story brick walk-up in a rapidly gentrifying borough that's already pretty much too expensive to live in. It's an almost a terrifying shame how much we leave behind when we decide to do anything.

There was still snow in some of the peaks as I reached the 7,200-foot summit of Donner Pass. As I descended into the eastern Sierras, I thought about that fateful clan of pioneers (who supposedly resorted to cannibalism after getting stranded on the pass during the winter. I'm not providing a link because I'm writing on a damn smartphone.). It occurred to me that I was pulling a reverse Donner: fleeing the golden, arid expanses of California for the muggy, populous East. How appropriate, then, that I should wind up regurgitate myself nightly on this blog.

With Caravanserai blasting on the stereo, I descended rapidly down into the canyons among the foothills and into Nevada. The color of the stones turned yellow and sandy, and before I knew it, I was completely surrounded by the barren expanses of western Nevada. With the light beginning to fail, I pressed eastward into the nearly entirely unpopulated central region.

The famous Bonneville salt flats are in Utah, but Nevada appears to have some of its own. As I passed through these, I couldn't help but notice that various travelers had stopped and tried to make messages using the coal-black rocks that proliferate among the alkalai.

Most of these messages seemed to be crude hearts with the names or initials of lovers assembled nearby. I found it comforting that those who wanted to leave a lasting impression on the landscape, some sort of communication for the world to see, do it out of love.

Perhaps it speaks to the essence of inspiration. Or maybe we've reached a point as a culture where this is the only thing left not worth saying anonymously on an online message board. Only the stones know.

Tomorrow: A visit to a railroad town.

This, ladies and gentlemen, is going to be an interesting experiment. I am blogging from my smartphone and an attempt to use a bluetooth keyboard succeeded only in costing me 60 dollars.

Six years ago my now-fiancee and I set out across the country to seek our fortunes in New York City.

Of course, she wasn't my fiancee at the time--and that's not the only thing that was different. We had Beaker, her old Honda Civic. Beaker has served us very well, but now it's time for us to upgrade.

So I purchased my mother's old Toyota Corolla, a 2005 model. Now I have to drive it all the way back across the country to New York. By myself.

I need to travel about 800 miles each day to get back to New York within the time I have given myself. That's why I'm writing now from a hotel room in Evanston, Wyoming, which is just on the border with Utah. I got through 3 whole states in a single day, which I think is not bad at all.

There will be more posts to come featuring more of my musings on the drive and also featuring my shoddy smartphone photography. You can also check out my more impromptu  updates on Twitter: @jeremyrwalsh

For now I will leave you with an amusing photograph on the outskirts of Sacramento and the thought that tomorrow I tackle Cheyenne--home of the Union Pacific Railroad. Onward!