“Little white fluffy clouds...”

Kilometres roll away like marbles on an uneven table, dropping off into oblivion behind us. Time doesn’t really exist as the scenery slips past through the windows of the car. You try not to pay attention to distances, but instead just sit and let it happen, and slowly by slowly you begin to get closer to your destination. The landscape itself is surreal, like a cartoon, or a painted Hollywood set. I keep expecting the car to smash into a hidden rock wall behind the scenery painted by a troublesome road runner, having passed a couple of dead coyotes already. Little white clouds shaped like soft cotton balls litter the cornflower-blue sky as though produced by some celestial conveyor belt in the distance, while dust devils twirl up amongst the dry sage and cactus. A swarm of grasshoppers make good on a suicide pact and emerge from behind a bush en masse into the windshield of our car.

Twenty hours in a car does strange things to one’s mind. Like a sparrow, guided by the stars, there is a deep yearning to return home, so we press on for as long as it takes towards the bright lights of Las Vegas. Over a thousand kilometres pass before we even reach the US border, with the clock already striking 5 pm. An hour of waiting in the line of cars brings us to the first customs officer whom, after a brief look in the back seat and a couple of questions meant to tease apart any inconsistencies with your recent history, allows us into his country, only to be stopped by the next group of officers for a more thorough investigation. “You’re from Canada? That figures.” What’s that supposed to mean? Partially confused, but relieved to be back on our way, we get into the car and head towards Phoenix, eleven hours in, and only a convenient 666 kilometres left until the city of sin. No jokes, I Google Mapped it.

In between Tucson and Phoenix we’re treated to one of the best sunsets of the entire trip, a nice consolation to hold us over for the next six or seven hours in the car. Pictures taken throughout that day at 80 mph make for some interesting compositions and results. No time to stop and enjoy. My sit bones, as the hippy yoga folk would say, are sore from the extensive drive, and I begin to get creative with some squeezing manoeuvres to keep the blood flowing. I don’t want any driving sores at the end of this trip. The GPS makes itself useful once again as apparently it recognizes roads only on the north side of the border we have just crossed, so traipsing through Phoenix is hassle-free. Now as we head through the desert in the quiet dark the eerie white glow of the headlights briefly illuminate the ghosts of Joshua Trees lining the highway then disappear into the darkness as we pass. You can’t help but wonder what else is out there in the darkness, amongst the trees. How many holes have been dug by the likes of Joe Pesci and Bobby DeNiro. Probably best not to linger. Getting closer now we arrive at Hoover Dam, likely more impressive in the daylight. A brief police check stop yields some wisecracks about the lack of waves in Arizona when they see the surfboards atop the car. The dam itself looks more like some nuclear weapons facility at the height of the cold war. I almost expect to see Russian planes dive in and obliterate the massive concrete walls and pillars strewn about everywhere you look.

We climb atop the last hill separating us from our destination, and the entire city opens up in the valley before us. The lights far down below spread out like a spider web atop the dark emptiness of the desert. Driving along the main strip, the bright lcd screens and flashing lights launch a full assault on the senses, overwhelming any capacity to take any of it in. After all, we have just come from places where it’s not uncommon to go without electricity, or running water for a few days, where you can’t even flush your toilet paper in the toilet. My mind recoils in horror at the sudden overload of visual stimuli. This is far too much to comprehend after 19 hours on the road. We turn around and begin to look for a hotel. I talk Denielle out of the $26 dollar free stabbing at breakfast in the heart of downtown, and we opt for a classier domicile on the north end towards the highway to Salt Lake City, and finally we get to bed after a full 20 hours in the car, only to wake up and do the marathon all over again.

Tyler.