At first light one early March morning in 1967 four of us, having driven all night from Berkeley in Rick Watson’s* father’s red Ford pickup and overshot our intended destination of Glass Mountain, found ourselves stalled in the snowy woods above Fandango Valley trying to cross the Warners.  We retreated down 395 to the next available crossing, Cedar Pass, fueled at Cedarville’s Hopper-esque last-chance Chevron, crossed Middle Lake on the causeway until 299’s pavement ended at the Nevada border and slithered cluelessly on 8A to Denio, a route which exists fundamentally unchanged to this day although some time between 1967 and 1972 a paved road [the internet says it was paved in 1962 but I sure didn’t notice any in 1967] was put through from Adel so now it’s only gravel for the maybe 73 miles from California to Big Springs Reservoir as opposed to 113 all the way to Denio Junction.  Fifty-three odd years later, groceries needing getting, I ran up from Wall Spring, Nevada,

to bustling Alturas, California, still 0 cases, 0 recoveries, 0 deaths as of June 12, 2020,

where nonetheless a taste more social distancing was evident than the week previous. Leaving town all roads into the Modoc XL Reservation were closed; SOME people are more cautious.

Having decided to belatedly re-investigate Fandango Pass as the aforementioned 1967 attempt was the beginning of an expedition which, in introducing me to the country up here, led to a lifetime of further explorations and obsessions, I headed towards Oregon.  East of Goose

Lake the turn for Fort Bidwell still ran along the edge of Fandango Valley, rising steadily until

its minimal pavement ended, then climbed more steeply into the trees beyond wherever it was we were turned back back then to, just past where the snowdrifts had stymied us, the pass,

which didn’t seem like much though I puzzled, the Neversweat Hills being some hundred miles

to the south in Nevada and on neither the Lassen nor Applegate Trails, as to why they’d be referenced here. “Absurdium”, I guess…

Had we made it to the top in ’67 it woulda been spectacular, though our subsequent adventurings out across the Sheldon and beyond** proved more than enough to keep me

coming back…and back.  The road steeply switchbacked down the east side of the scarp

to Upper Lake, after which it was south to  Lake City and around the upper east side

of Middle Lake, failing to find Leonard’s Hot Springs [conspicuous long ago]

but eventually locating a windy gravel pit for lunch.  After half an avocado with salsa and caffé

freddo 299 and the causeway weren’t far as was, Cedarville’s Hopper-esque full service Chevron long gone, fuel at Rabbit Traxx.  By one I was well down the valley where just above the Bare Ranch a slow-lifting vulture experienced an unfortunate collision with my mirror and vice-versa.

The bird was found on the ground near two mirrors a mere few feet apart, one not mine.  Weird, and strange; two hits, same spot…[above; mirror not mine]

On across Duck Flat, Nevada, to an execrable hardscrabble road at the top of the pass for pee

and chocolate, then home with, miracle of miracles, exquisitely fresh oysters fresh that day

from the Holiday.  Saturday morning Linda took off for California and my truck turned out to be

[Curse of the Vulture?] utterly dead, the same day Rayshard Brooks would later be shot dead in the back by an Atlanta cop.  Rightfully charged with Murder Most Foul, within a week  [a week ending in Juneteenth, coincidentally***] said cop had already amassed a defense fund in excess of $250,000.  That would be, yeah, Americka fer ya, protecting their owned.

*Presently and for many years a respected antiquarian book dealer in London.

**Some days later, nearing Craters of the Moon National Monument***, Rick recalled “I remember we stopped in the first town in Idaho we came to, maybe Twin Falls, to get gas, an old leathery attendant came up, I rolled the window down, he didn’t say anything, just stared at us, then I asked ‘you got gas?’ and he replied ‘yep, I got gas’ then I said ‘fill er up’. He walked to the front of the truck, looks at the plate, stared again at us, came back and said ‘I read about people like you’**** and then proceeded to fill the tank. I got out, and saw in the station window a sign that read ‘We Mend Minds’, next to a saddle (the sign was actually for a mental illness charity). On our return from the Moon slept by a river somewhere.”

***The furthest extent of our igneous excursion; from there we turned back and a day or so later I had my first glimpse of Pyramid Lake, looking very like a LIFE [wholly owned subsidiary of the ominous “Time-Life Corporation”] Magazine illustration for the Beginnings of Life on Earth; bare rocks, dark whitecapped waters, electrical disturbances and wild rainsqualls. Later [not much later; 1970], after I moved to San Francisco, the lake became the first stop and gateway for most of the “Voyages of Exploration” made up to the north and as far, eventually, as southwestern Idaho until 1986 when Radar Ranch came into play and most trips took off from Winnemucca…other stories.

*** He had it all over me; I never did get to read about those ‘people’.

****Also, coincidentally, Luz’ 46th birthday and the day before a massive Trump rally in Tulsa, OK.   Which may have marked the beginning of the fizzling of the Trumpernaught, but only time [and QAnon?] will tell…