I putter around, make some tea, and wonder what I ought to do today. My only firm plan is that I have to go to town. This is less for food and more because I am running out of underwear. For some reason, I find using other peoples' washing machines to be a deeply personal and intimate experience, and I cannot bring myself to ask Lauren and Ed if I may use theirs. Last time we went to Walmart, I surreptitiously bought a pack of underwear and hoped I would overcome my strange aversion to their washing machine, but it hasn't happened yet. Thus my need to go into town.
Still, going to the random strip mall of Tooele does not seem like the appealing Day-Off sort of activity that I would hope for, so I cast about for something else to do. Staying on the farm is out. Knowing myself, I will get antsy and start doing work instead of enjoying my day to myself. Exploration seems like the better choice anyway. Lauren suggests I drive the Pony Express trail, but I have always been keen to see the Bonneville Salt Flats, which are a weird geological phenomenon, and if there is one thing that makes me excited, it is weird geological phenomenons.
And poop.
I determine that the best route to get to the Salt Flats will be through the back roads, rather than going along the highway. Highways are boring and full of cars that could potentially save you. Back roads are potential serial killer breeding grounds, and you can stop your car in the middle of them anywhere you want to take a picture, like the one up there that encompasses a very artistic use of space and bird shit.
I drive along UT-196 and bask in the fact that I am probably one of two people who have used this road. It looks like something out of Red Dead Redemption, and I feel the urge to collect feverfew for tonics and murder a bear with a knife. Lauren had mentioned before I set out that I ought to have a full tank of gas if I planned on going west anywhere, since there is absolutely nothing in western Utah. I thought I did, but I found I only had 3/4 of a tank. Still, I drive a Camry, and that is probably okay. I have no idea, and I get the feeling that is actually a bad thing and not okay at all.
UT-196 actually takes me toward the Pony Express trail. As I drive through the wonderfully flat plains surrounded by mountains, I feel very western, and wonder if maybe taking the trail might not be such a bad idea after all.
Benign bucolic scene or TERRIFYING DEATH TRAP?!
By the time I make it to the trail, I've already driven twenty miles and do not have the amount of gas I think I do. It is hard to tell, but the road for the trail is actually just a gravel road. It seems...imprudent, given the sweltering heat and the condition of my vehicle to make the Pony Express journey. I thank the many years of playing Oregon Trail for giving me the good sense to not just go on ahead. If there was one thing I learned from that game, it is that any time you come to a crossroads where this is the only thing you see:
One of your party has died of dysentery,
would you like to bury them at the Mormon church?
In any direction, I only see the sign post for the trail, and this church. Even the road I am supposed to go down looks barren and unforgiving.
Like my soul.
But at this point, it is drive on or drive back. Since there was no 'turn back' option in Oregon Trail, I guess the only thing to do is drive on. I turn onto Skull Valley Road and continue.
I have not seen another car for some time now, and the vast emptiness of the plains fills me with a curious glee. These are the lands cowboys saw, and crossed, and turned down in favor of places like Oregon and California, leaving this place for people with golden plates and magic underwear. Still, a hundred years of ponies crossed this area at some point, and now I get to cross it too. I curse the fact that I did not queue up my phone with Circle of Life from The Lion King, which, if anyone didn't know this, is THE most intense and moving road trip song in the world. I have seen so many natural wonders with that song playing, including the movie The Lion King, which is probably the 8th Wonder of the World in and of itself. Being entirely out of reception, I satisfy myself by singing it at the top of my lungs. After all, who the fuck is around to hear me?
"Do you mind?"
The only thing around for miles are giant horse ranches. I call them horse ranches, but they seem to be Mormon cabins with maybe one or two horses grazing on vast tracts of land, and not a person outside in sight. I know they are Mormon cabins because Lauren has educated me that ensuring one's home well-kept is a tenet of Mormonism, which is why the temples are always perfectly manicured. It is also why so many ranches and farms around Utah have a wonderfully beautiful farm house, and shitty, dilapidated barns and stables. God made animals, but he didn't say they had to survive, apparently.
While I am tickled by the presence of all these ponies, I am starting to realize that I am not as replete with gas as I ought be for a journey like this. I am also in a place called Skull Valley, and for some reason that just does not bode well. Thankfully, I see a sign that says there is a gas station up ahead that also has snacks. I have a giant bag of Raisinets and some almonds, as well as a ton of beef jerky (never go cowboying without it), so I am fine on that front, but gas would be nice.
Or not.
I only have half a tank and have no idea how far Skull Valley goes, but I cannot even be mad at the false advertising of there being gas in the valley, because how fucking cool is this? A little googie-looking gas station that says Last Vegas. I wonder if it is a gas station that was the last stop on the way to Vegas, but the geographic logistics do not work out, so I decide that it was actually a gas station that was the last hedonistic waypoint on the way out of Vegas. It was probably full of hookers and gambling to delight travelers as they traveled back to Salt Lake City and masturbation-prevention underpants.
If there was a wellspring around this bad boy, I would totally make it my post-apocalyptic refuge. But the world has not ended yet, and I still have salt flats to see, so I press on again. I try to not let the ever-left-moving pin on my gas gauge psych me out, because there is so much lovely to see, including a place called Lone Rock that I seriously debated taking a picture of, but didn't, because the name was pretty self-explanatory, and I figured if I ever forgot what it looked like, it is because I have finally given in to crazy old lady dementia and do not know what rocks look like anymore. At which point, not having a picture of Lone Rock will be the least of my worries anyway.
Soon after Lone Rock, I come to the highway, and it is all easy from there. Having spent an hour in a place God has probably forgotten, I am surprised to see real honest-to-goodness road signs that tell me exactly how many miles it is to the next point of civilization. Cars blow by me on either side, and I am officially clear of dying out in the high desert. Yay!
I soon start seeing white land everywhere. Though it looks fine like sand, it is mixed with salt, and I know I am close. Another hour on the highway, and I come to my destination.
Ooooo.
I immediately park and start running and jumping around. This place is cooler than I had ever dreamed. It is literally a ground made of salt, and as the wind blows, the salt tinkles on the ground like tiny little delicious bells. I do not have first-hand knowledge that they are delicious because other people are around and I tend to not eat the ground when people can see me, but I imagine this is how happy pigs are to become salted pork, because being around this much salted earth is amazing.
Why, you ask, am I so excited about being on a barren piece of land that is just a big white patch in the middle of brown plains?
OH GEE I DUNNO
That's right. I am standing in the same place as Captain Steven Hiller and David Levinson after they destroyed the alien spaceship in Independence Day. Welcome to Earf.
I am so caught in the spirit, I try to recreate my own picture, but I lack someone to take my picture, and I lack Army gear, and a badass fire in the background, as well as the swagger that comes from destroying an entire race.
Wrong way, dickhead.
I spend the rest of my time trying to record a video of myself being in the salt flats, but it does not work. The only thing that works is this video of the sun coming over the flats, and then giving up halfway through, which is more an awesome indicator of how fucking ridiculous the wind is than anything else.
I am soon over standing around in the middle of fucking nowhere, and I drive back to Tooele. I patronize the local Starbuck's, only to learn it is brand spanking new, and the three people who are inside are freaking out about that fact. One of the girls is learning to make Frappuccinos, and a 16-year-old kid keeps asking, "Holy crap, is that what it looks like? I want one!"
I realize I am really out of the way when people do not actually know what Starbuck's drinks are. I order an iced Americano and the girl behind the counter sweetly suggests that I try a shaken espresso. I refrain from telling her that I have probably tried everything that they could ever make here, and I do not care to have anything different because everything here tastes like it was shat from the bowels of Hell.
I do my grocery shopping and buy more underwear and booze, then wearily make my way back home. The salt flats were actually a 5.5 hour round trip adventure, and I am ready to relax.
When I get back to the farm, I crack a cider and take some pictures of the goats. My camera is somehow in schizophrenia mode, which causes it to take pictures like this:
Uhh, a little artsier than I had hoped...
Camera...
Camera, please!
CAMERA STAHP
STAAAHHHP!
It takes me a minute before I realize my camera is in what the shit is going on mode, but I soon get it out and take some more relaxing photos.
Motherfucking tranquility, yo.
The baby goats are being silly too, so I take advantage of that with a camera in their cute little faces.
The cuteness overload becomes too much. Tired, happy and smelling like goats, I turn in, ready to get back to work the next day. Probably.
Goodnight, pony!
GOAT OF THE DAY: Aristotle
Aristotle used to have balls, but then he got all uppity so they were taken away from him. Also he is the only goat with full horns. He is Pan's grandfather too, which makes him kind of cool. He enjoys looking like Julius Caesar in goat form.
I think I will take a bath and then cross the Rubicon.
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