This past weekend I spent three days in Pahrump, Nevada for a trike demonstration. It's a peculiar thing, finding the bravery to scrunch your body into a machine that you have no control over. Sure, we do it all the time in airliners. Trikes, however, differ. They're more personal. One second you're on the ground listening to a pilot's radio chatter, the next he tells you to peer down at the ground, thousands of feet below.
While in flight you get your own peek at a living Sim City. Loved it. Get to let your mind wander into God space, where all the world is Keflings, bending against your might.
[ In a rush to make it to the hangar before sun-up, I couldn't find a hair tie and was delighted by 1) the sting of my hair slapping my face while I was soaring at 50+mph and 2) how hair stays nice and tangled for days after a 45 minute flight when you have no access to running water. ]
Seriously, though, flying as a passenger was relaxing. There's a sweetness that comes with skimming weightless over great green desert bushes. Nothing quite like the comfort of the sun, closer than ever, her warm palms against your cheeks.
And then there's the desert itself, hot and relentless under your feet.
I'm about as hardy as an orchid. I crave rain and cool weather, but I promise, I do try to appreciate the Southwest. We passed Dumont Dunes on the way up. Met some rainstorms, Nevada's sudden flood conditions reminding me of home -- the little nook of Puget Sound -- but warmer.
Everything held the quaintness of small pop. towns but it wasn't exactly welcoming. Sleepy. Like the bored, lazy cashier girl in an Indie movie's grocery store scene. Not that I disliked the place. In a conversation with my life-pal, while we were trudging through the time-molasses that slow wi-fi pours onto you, I learned that one of the things he likes about me is that I "could be in a total shithole and still want to explore."
Without getting too MPDG on you, I'll just say that no matter where you are, there's always an adventure ahead. Even if we're just talking about photographing rotting mock Saloons or a staking out a giant thermometer (hello, Baker.)
Having a camera makes life that much more interesting. I found myself enamored by the kitsch of aircrafts and creamsicle clouds. An empty Sonic parking lot, menus so bright they ought to hum. There were crickets chirping under constellations and roosters that awoke before the sun. I felt alive in a dusty trailer park, doused in the fading illumination coming off the strings of dollar-tree fairy-lights, wrapped and winding through the leaves of lonely palm trees.
