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THE AUTHOR SPEAKS HIS MIND
November 9, 2007---At McDonald's. David, hungry for a premium chicken sandwich, says: "I'll take #7 grilled." Employee: "Grilled or crispy?" This has happened to me so many times! These employees are so well script trained, they simply are deaf to the customer's order.
In spite of a heavy commitment to school (both as teacher and student), I have taken time to go on a few hikes this fall. I am also romantically involved. More news on that later!
December 23, 2006---Compare this photo with the one lower on the page. The palms have grown!
Friday the 13th (October 2006)---I drove to my job this morning, fully aware of the implications of the date. After pulling into a parking space, I turned off the radio, rolled up the window, and switched off the ignition. Then, the left lens popped out of my eyeglasses and landed in my lap. What happened to the screw? Not a clue! ... By the end of the day, I had worked 30 minutes overtime, abandoned hopes of getting to the post office in time to mail a copy of my book to a friend in The Netherlands, failed to arrive at the vision center inside Wal-Mart before they closed (to buy a replacement screw for my glasses), and failed to make it to the bank on time to deposit my paycheck. And having failed all those tasks, I used up my evening, and didn't even get around to eating dinner. And how was your Friday the 13th?
September 30, 2006...
The Bristlecone Trail
I had a great hike today on the Bristlecone Trail.
Just ask my feet. My shoes have thin soles, so the sensation of stepping on small jagged rocks was similar to having one’s bare feet be knuckled by river pebbles. The pine cones, however, simply squished beneath my toes. As for the orange and golden medallions that speckled the path beneath the crowding aspens, they merely shuddered as I tread on them. Rocks, pine cones, and aspen leaves. For starters, it can truly be said that hiking is a sensual adventure for the feet. . . .
More obviously, hiking is a sensual treat for all of the human senses. The eyes are greeted above by sunny blue skies, swept by a thin avenue of wispy white clouds. The spectacular view below is of quaking aspen groves creating autumnal splashes of shimmering gold amidst the dark green needles of towering ponderosa pines. Beyond the aspens, whose smooth white trunks are banded in black, and beyond the creamy brown, flaky-barked pines, is a rugged chaos of blue-gray stone: impertinent juts, elaborate towers, imposing cliffs, and tumbling debris. . . .
But there are more sensual pleasures to experience. A cool mountain breeze causes the skin to tingle with delight. The bark of the ponderosa pine, when pressed upon by one’s inquisitive nose, smells of sweet butterscotch. The quiet of nature’s solitude is relaxation for the ears, though the peace is broken now and then by the screeching of a bird in flight, or by the chatter of fellow hikers encountered on the trail. As for taste, well, perhaps nature provides a berry, a flower, a bark, or a leaf worth trying, but this hiker will stick to his trail mix, whose various nuts, fruit pieces, chocolate drops, and golden raisins are the staple of the average hiking enthusiast.
I am definitely an enthusiast of the Bristlecone Trail. I have taken the trail’s six-mile loop many times over the past 11 years, and have come to anticipate with pleasure the viewing of certain trees, as if they were old human acquaintances. One is a dead bristlecone high on the path, rooted in a rocky landscape that is more lunar than terrestrial. This grandfather of trees, all twisted and gnarly, thrusts his gray weathered arms skyward, as if pleading the heavens for mercy. Another of my acquaintances is an old giant, once proud and tall, but reduced years ago to a twenty-foot hollow stump by a bolt of lightning that set it ablaze and charred its wood black. This dark sentinel stands like a martyr in a grove of vibrant aspens. And then there is the ponderosa that literally sits on a promontory of rock. To each side, a giant root, resembling a leg, extends along the promontory’s receding shelf until it reaches the rock’s edge, at which point it turns downward, burrowing into the earth for nourishment. It is easy to imagine that this tree is a king, seated upon his throne, looking down upon his subjects—the occasional hiker—who can’t fail but to look up! And, for those of us who are familiar with the Ents—those giant trees that walk, talk, and storm into battle in The Lord of the Rings—it’s not altogether unreasonable to assume that this royal ponderosa will up from his throne at nightfall, and quietly retire to his forest chamber to catch a few winks.
The six miles of the Bristlecone Trail are divided into two fairly even segments: the Upper Bristlecone and the Lower Bristlecone. I always begin my hike on the Lower Bristlecone, which is essentially a gravel road that winds relentlessly uphill towards the Bonanza Trailhead. At this intersection, the trail becomes the Upper Bristlecone. And shortly thereafter, the trail narrows to a footpath that wiggles its way around the blunt end of Lee Canyon along a steep and treacherous mountainside. The hiker, though tempted to look across the canyon to the majestic cliffs of Mummy Peak, or else up the forested slopes towards the bald summit of Mt. Charleston, must instead pay close attention to his footsteps, lest he trip over the large root systems that frequently cross the trail, or else the many razor-sharp ridges of stone that slice through it. Now and then, due to a precipitous cleft in the mountainside, continuation of the path demands human intervention. And so it is bridged by felled trunks, and supported by a basement of piled rock. Here, it is wise not to venture off the path. . . .
There is a short stretch of trail on the Upper Bristlecone that cuts through an unexpected cascade of brittle blue shelves, here and there fractured and broken into scree. There are rock specimens to be found here that deserve to be displayed on a shelf. First, imagine a rock with a dimpled blue surface. Now imagine that this surface can only be seen in the shallow interstices of an intricate raised network of stone bandages. These bandages are smooth and reddish-brown, and so offer a striking contrast in both color and texture. I don’t know what geological forces have been at work on this mountainside’s disintegrating outcrop, but they have produced a rock collector’s field of dreams.
Hiking itself is like a dream when compared to the reality with which we must daily reckon.
On the Bristlecone Trail, at 9400 feet above sea level, a lone hiker absorbs the rugged beauty of the Spring Mountains on a Saturday afternoon. Seven thousand feet below him, sixty miles to the southeast, and a world away in his mind, are the hectic city streets of Las Vegas, where, all too soon, he will be weaving his way through congested traffic lines towards an address where he lives and sleeps.
But he knows that in his Heart, his home is on the Trail.
Copyright by David E. Miller. And dedicated to his parents, who live in Southern Missouri.
August 16, 2006---I've been offered an office job, starting Monday, August 21st. After 9 years, I can finally kiss the casinos goodbye. On this day, I also finished DS-2.17.
August 14/15, 2006---When Batteries and Bad Luck Collide!
On the other side of town (17 miles from home), I picked up a friend ("M...") who needed the use of my truck to haul tile back to his house. We arrived at Home Depot, but once inside, M... realized that although he had shopped there, the tile was actually purchased at Lowe's. Upon returning to the parking lot, I discovered that my truck wouldn't start: dead battery. A nice couple parked nearby offered to jump start me, and the husband cleaned the terminals with a special brush he had. But the battery could not be revived. They wished us luck, and left.
Since I'd picked up M... at 7:30 pm, it was already well after 8:00. What to do? I hailed another couple leaving in a truck, begging for a ride. They agreed to take just one of us, and M... was given a lift back to his house, several miles away. By the time M... returned with his car, it was 8:30 pm. We drove to a nearby Wal-Mart. They didn't have the battery we needed. We drove to Pep Boys, a few miles further away. They didn't have it, either. We'd been told that Auto Zone (just down the street from Pep Boys) closed at 9 pm, and we arrived there at 8:58 pm! Turns out, that particular location stays open until midnight. Auto Zone didn't have the exact battery, but they had one that would work: slightly more powerful, slightly different in size. We returned to my truck.
Next problem: I'd taken my tool kit out of the truck for a home project, and had forgotten to return it. It was now 9:40 pm, and Home Depot was open for another twenty minutes. I had to return the first socket wrench set I purchased when I realized that I needed metric. Home Depot closed five minutes after I purchased the standard/metric socket wrench set. Once the cables were removed, I was able to install the new battery, and the truck started right up. At this point, M... left for home.
Next problem: the bracket that held the old battery in place didn't quite fit the new battery, but could be made to fit. One side of the bracket was secured by a long down rod with a hooked end. It had a nut for height adjustment, and it was too low to allow the bracket to span the new battery. The other side of the bracket was secured by a bolt that screwed into a threaded hole in the frame. I lost the bolt trying to forcibly bend the bracket over the battery, and couldn't loosen the nut on the other side of the bracket to adjust for height. So, with the battery unsecured, I drove to Auto Zone to give them the old battery ($10 refund), and then returned home. It was 11:00 pm.
The next day (Aug. 15), I went to a Home Depot near my home and (on my second try) found a metric bolt to replace the one I'd lost. I then stopped at a nearby Auto Zone to buy a terminal brush (for future maintenance). Back at home, I used a monkey wrench and vice-grips to loosen the nut on the down rod, and, with the height adjusted properly, and the new bolt, I finally tightened the bracket down onto the battery.
End result: new battery, new socket wrench set (not that I needed one), a battery terminal brush, and a hit on my credit card. Oh, and did I mention that we never picked up the tile?
August 14, 2006---Prior to the ordeal with my truck battery (see above), I went to the second of three job interviews with a company that I hope will hire me. Afterwards, I stopped at the Post Office to buy a book of 39-cent stamps (I used a $20 bill, so I got a lot of dollar coins back in change). When I reached for the stamps, I found another book of stamps someone had left behind. Only, they were 24-cent stamps! Ten of them. The only small denomination stamps available through the vending machine were 2-cent stamps. To make up the difference between 24 cents and 39 cents, I needed eight 2-cent stamps for each 24-cent stamp. So, I bought eighty 2-cent stamps (four packages of twenty). So, I will now have 10 envelopes going out with 40 cents worth of postage. I got $2.40 worth of free stamps, and it cost me $1.60 to put them to use. Net savings of $2.30 over a straight purchase of ten 39-cent stamps! . . . . At least the day started out well.
July 31, 2006---Effective this past Friday, I am unemployed. A fellow dealer, who has the run of the place, and who is an "institution" that nobody can touch, has made life very difficult for me since Day 1, and he finally figured out a way to make it impossible for me to continue there. For nine years, I applied with this casino conglomerate, due to its reputation as an excellent employer (my experience would indicate otherwise). So it's devastating that a single evildoer was able to ruin my career there. The casino manager, both unprofessional and equally hostile, was unwilling to transfer me to another shift or casino. I'm taking great pains to avoid naming the company or the individuals involved. In any event, I am now looking for employment outside the casino environment, where I do not function well due to the casinos' childish/militaristic management practices and the caliber of individuals they hire. I will try not to let this situation deter me from making progress on my fiction, but, due to the stress, it's bound to slow things down a bit. Sorry about that.
June 13, 2006---THE GRASSHOPPER'S TALE---This past Sunday, as I was talking to Star Nursery about my euonymus bushes, some of whose leaves had yellowed, apparently due to nutrient deficiency, I saw a grasshopper relaxing on a euonymus leaf. I've noticed a few chewed leaves recently, and when I mentioned the grasshopper on the phone, the Star Nursery consultant said for me to bring it in for a look. This grasshopper was a bright emerald green, small in size, and had yellow markings around the eyes. I don't think I've ever seen one quite like it before. . . . I easily snatched it up, and put it in a 35 mm film canister.
It wasn't until Tuesday evening that I finally found time to stop at Star Nursery. Naturally, I assumed the little grasshopper had suffocated, or starved, or simply given up on Life after over 48 hours in dark confinement. When I popped off the rubber lid, the grasshopper slid out onto the counter. It looked dead. But then, its hind leg made a little jerky movement. And its antennae twitched. And its body wriggled. A few seconds later, the caterpillar was trying to turn over, to get back on its feet.
"It's alive!" I marveled.
The Star Nursery assistant replied, "There's a good way to rid of these." I expected him to mention the name of a product. Instead, he picked up the grasshopper, dropped it on the floor, and crushed it with a heavy foot.
Afterwards, I put myself in the grasshopper's place. Life was sweet and carefree on that euonymus leaf, basking in the mid-afternoon sun! Then, for reasons unknown, the little guy found himself brutally whisked away and thrown into solitary confinement. No food. No light. A dwindling supply of stale air. Virtually no space to move around in. And absolutely no hope at all. . . . Then, suddenly, after an eternal night of misery, which he had miraculously survived, he was expelled back into the living world. Light! Fresh air! Freedom at last! Life is good! . . . But that giddy moment lasted no more than a minute or two. Before he could regain his strength and establish his bearings, he was swept up and cast down upon a hard concrete floor. The last thing he saw was the sole of a shoe, growing ever larger in size, eating up the sky, bearing down hard on his helpless body. And then . . . smack! His body spewed out its innards, and the world, so briefly rediscovered, disappeared forever. Not even time for a brief fit of agony. Just instant annihilation! Sudden grasshopper death!
There is a scene in The Great Escape, towards the end, where some recovered prisoners are allowed to get out of the German truck after a long haul in order to stretch their legs. As they fill their lungs with fresh air, and talk about what the future holds for them, the Germans set up a machine gun. And they mow the prisoners down!
That grasshopper was in the wrong place at the wrong time. But I won't forget him. Nor will I forget his cruel and ironic fate! For which I am ultimately to blame! Dear reader, I must confess.
I am a grasshopper killer!
May 16, 2006---I've been something of a troublemaker this past week!
(1) Upon passing by a presumably "undocumented guest fruit vendor" on a residential street corner just one block away from an elementary school, I called 311 and informed police dispatch, who said the individual almost certainly did not have a permit, and would be fined. Ironically, I was on my way to the grocery store to buy oranges!
(2) A homeowner was having a garage sale in my neighborhood. In order to facilitate entry into our gated community, he posted the secret access code on the gate! Hello? I called the Homeowner's Association, which has always denied the existence of any gate code, and sounded off on this. Leaking this information to the general public is unacceptable!
(3) I used to love going to my bank. Mostly due to the attractive young ladies who smiled, giggled, and greeted me by name. But then the bank was robbed at gunpoint, and they all quit. To make matters worse, the bank was sold and changed names. Now, all business is conducted by a single employee: a young man of Middle Eastern descent who not only does not greet anyone, but won't even initiate eye contact. Banking is a people business! A couple of weeks ago, I complained about this to a bank finance manager. Today, I was so frustrated (withholding my deposit slip, I asked the teller, "Can I get a hello? A good afternoon? A Praise Be to Allah?"), I called the corporate director of operations. She said his quiet demeanor was rooted in his culture, but that she would discuss it with the bank manager, who would then "coach" him on how to greet a customer.
Now, the Big Questions. (1) Did the police ticket the [pedophile-in-training?] fruit vendor before he ran for the border? And, if so, what became of the fruit? (2) Will the HOA rake the indiscreet homeowner over hot burning coals---or engage in an elaborate cover-up scheme that I will hereby dub "Codegate?" (3) Will the foreign bank teller get a GPS lock on his current country of residence, and let go of his cultural roots just long enough to learn the basics of interaction with deposit slip wielding Infidels?
February 26, 2006---Watched Domino on DVD, which just arrived from Amazon.com. Not only did I enjoy watching the scenes filmed at the casino where I worked until recently, but I also took great pleasure in noticing that key scenes were filmed at Bonnie Springs (Red Rock Canyon) and Valley of Fire State Park, places where I hang out from time to time. Although film reviewers were severely critical of Tony Scott's outlandish visual style and unstable storyline, I found the movie to be exhilarating. Unlike the majority of critics who panned it, I was more than capable of digesting the film's visual and narrative content. Yes, it is a somewhat challenging film for traditionalists. But I'm not one of those.
May 16, 2005---At the WWW, where I work weekends, I had a very strange Sunday/Monday. While on break Sunday evening, I took a Styrofoam cup from an open tube and filled it with Pepsi at the soda machine. I drank the Pepsi as I played on the company-provided internet terminal. After finishing the Pepsi, I looked down into the cup, thinking I needed a refill. But Oh, horror! there were a dozen live ants in the cup! . . . I'd been so preoccupied with the internet, I didn't know whether or not I had swallowed any of them, or whether the ones in the cup had hung on to the Styrofoam walls for dear life! This reminded me of the hoax in which the Las Vegas woman planted the severed fingertip of her husband's co-worker in a chili bowl at a Wendy's in San Jose. Except this was no hoax! And I may have unwittingly swallowed some truly disgusting protein! . . . I delivered the cup to the Security Office, and the incident was noted. Hopefully, those ants valued good hygiene!
Later, at precisely 1:30 Monday morning as I was crossing from the casino to the break room, which is located in a different building, I found a $20 bill and a $10 bill folded together lying on the sidewalk. Honest guy that I am, I took the bills to the Security Desk by the cage. After 30 days, I can claim that money. But, of course, I hope the rightful owner checks with Security and recovers it.
And what strange days have you had?
December 18, 2004---Watched Director Tony Scott set up and film a short sequence for the new film Domino on the casino floor this morning. Although extras were used for the background people walking the floor and seated at the gaming tables, actual casino dealers were used at the tables. I was not among the dealers chosen because, since I don't work in that pit, I was not given the sign-up sheet. Some of the crew, and one of the actors, played at my Blackjack and 3-Card Poker tables over the past several days. On location filming is scheduled to end December 19 (a day off for me).
SpaceShipOne, The Gipper’s Library, and El Pescador
June 20
I had already read a number of articles in Popular Science about Burt Rutan’s aerospace company, Scaled Composites, and its bid to win the Ansari X Prize. I had already seen CNN’s report on the successful May 2004 test flight of SpaceShipOne (ferried into the sky and released for launch by the White Knight). So when the Scaled Composites web site, CNN, and the Las Vegas Review-Journal all announced the June 21, 2004 suborbital test flight that would, for the first time, attempt to rocket SpaceShipOne to the Ansari X Prize’s minimum altitude requirement of 62.5 miles / 100 km (the edge of space), I was determined to witness the historic event in person. Fortunately, the date fell on a Monday morning, and that coincided with my weekend. There was, of course, no guarantee that the flight would happen that morning. Although the weather forecast called for clear skies with a high of 92 F, there was the worrisome factor of those desert winds. Since I didn’t have to return to work until Tuesday evening, I decided that, if the launch were delayed no more than 24 hours, I would stick around to watch it happen. My plans did not include any traveling beyond Mojave, California. I was just going to drive there, watch the launch, and return to Las Vegas.
My old 1973 Minolta SRT-101 camera has a telephoto lens, and I wanted to use it to catch some great photos. Unfortunately, the last time I’d used it, the light meter function did not work properly. So I wanted to get a replacement battery to see if that would resolve the problem. But I could not find the battery at WalMart or Walgreen’s, and it was getting late. So I packed my truck for a possible camping trip, and took along both the Minolta and my newer Olympus (which takes acceptable pictures and has some zoom capability). I stopped for gasoline at the corner Arco station, and at 10:30 pm, I was off to California.
June 21
Having looked at the map before my trip, I had estimated 216 miles. Actual mileage to Mojave Airport (recently dubbed a Spaceport by the US Government) was 227 miles. According to information I printed from Scaled Composites’ web site, the parking lot would open at 3:00 am. Since Sunday night traffic on I-15 from Vegas to LA can be congested, I didn’t expect to arrive until well after 3:00 am. However, traffic on I-15 was light, and I arrived at 2:45 am. I paid my $10 parking fee, was directed to a parking space in a large graded dirt area of the desert on the south side of the runway, and headed for the tents. Of the three main tents, two served food and drinks. I was interested in the souvenir tent. The canvas bags, and a few other items, had not yet been delivered. But they had the tee shirts in stock, and I wanted one—not to wear, but to keep as a memento of the occasion. I stood in line for over half an hour, as people were not admitted until 3:30 am. It was very windy. I said to one of the employees that they should have included in their merchandise a SpaceShipOne windbreaker.....
After being informed where the viewing area was for the launch, and that people were already gathering there I returned my tee shirt to the truck, fetched a lawn chair, and headed for the runway. A fence runs along the runway from the nearest hangar. At a point along the runway’s length, the fence stops, and a meta staked cordon elbows away from it an angle. There were fewer people at the cordon, so that’s where I set up shop. I had my two cameras, a small pair of binoculars, some granola bars, and a thermos of ice water. It was about 4:00 am. The nearest light was behind my back, emanating from the parking area. Thousands of hopeful spectators held a vigil beneath the stars. We watched a couple of satellites cross the sky. We watched the eastern sky for hints of a rising sun. And we watched the clock...
As the sky became a pale orange in the east, the winds began to die down. Over my shoulder to the northeast, I could see, on mountaintops and mountainsides, hundreds of wind turbines. Oddly, when the sun rose enough to be fully visible over the eastern ridge of mountains, there were no shadows anywhere to be seen. Was this the real sun, or merely an atmospheric reflection of the sun? Anticipation grew strong as the time approached 6:30 am, the presumed take-off time for the White Knight. In fact, the mothership did appear more or less on time. It rolled down the runway to the end, turned about, and waited. A pickup truck with a camper shell, a van, a firetruck, and a chaser plane waited with it.
The pilot of SpaceShipOne was 62-year-old Mike Melvill. There was nothing for him to do but wait for the White Knight’s pilot to take off—and it did at 6:47 am. For the next hour, we watched the White Knight spiral upward. Most of the time, it was visible to the naked eye, and could be distinguished from the chase planes by its unique configuration. (Even the chase planes were radically different in design, so they could not be confused, either.) Towards the end of the climb, it was necessary to use binoculars. At times, we lost sight of the craft. Then the sun would glint off its hull, or we could spot its contrail, and then it was visible again.
The chase planes included (1) Robert Scherer’s Starship, a twin-engine turboprop painted white with a canard near the nose, (2) a single-engine conventional-looking airplane painted red and black that is used for pilot training, and (3) the Alpha-Jet, a military-looking aircraft painted olive green that filmed the flight for a Discovery Channel documentary.
When, at 7:50 am, SpaceShipOne separated from the White Knight, it was right beneath the sun. The White Knight’s contrail was horizontal and slow. Melvill ignited SpaceShipOne’s hybrid rocket motor (fueled by 600 pounds of rubber and 3,000 pounds of nitrous oxide), and that produced a near vertical contrail that shot upward at an amazing speed. In fact, SpaceShipOne’s 80-second engine burn accelerated the rocket to near Mach 3. It was an exciting moment! One of the spectators had a radio tuned to the airport’s broadcast, and we listened to the commentary.
At this point, I will just reprint a news article from Popular Science’s website (popsci.com):
Near the end of the climb, one of the electrical actuators that controls the craft in pitch and roll apparently failed. When Melvill called for a pitch maneuver that should have moved the left and right wing controls, only one of them moved, and SpaceShipOne rolled to the left, skidding 20 miles off course in seconds. "I really thought I had a big problem," Melvill said after the flight. But the vehicle left the atmosphere at that point--and with no air, the position of the control surface no longer mattered, and Melvill was able to stabilize it with pneumatic jet thrusters and activate a back-up trim system. "If I hadn't popped out of the atmosphere at that moment, it would have been all over," Melvill said."
"The failure and the course deviation caused the
flight to miss its target altitude of 360,000 feet, but navigation data showed
that SpaceShipOne reached 328,491 feet, a few hundred feet above the 62.5-mile
altitude that defines space. During his three minutes of weightlessness,
Melvill admired the view ("absolutely awesome," he enthused. "I
saw all the way from San Diego to Bishop [Calif.]") and floated M&Ms
around the cabin.
"After reaching his maximum altitude, Melvill switched SpaceShipOne to
its feathered-wing configuration, in which the spacecraft's wings pivot upward
to permit the vehicle to re-enter the atmosphere in a highly stable
shuttlecocklike configuration. Melvill described the feathered re-entry as
loud but otherwise a "non-event," and actually more stable during
the supersonic, Mach 3 part of the re-entry than in subsonic flight. Rutan
cites the feathered re-entry as a major achievement, because it allows a
vehicle to re-enter the atmosphere with a simple control system.
"After re-entry, Melvill flipped the wing back into its normal position
and glided the small vehicle to a gentle touchdown at Mojave. Now officially
an astronaut, Melvill described the flight as "mind-blowing,"
providing a glimpse as to what the experience might be like for passengers who
take similar flights in the future.
"The control problem may affect Rutan's X-Prize attempt. To win the
prize, SpaceShipOne will have to fly above 100 kilometers twice in two weeks,
with two passengers or equivalent ballast. Rutan had hoped that the vehicle's
next flight would be its first prize flight, but that decision will wait.
"There's no way we'll fly again without knowing the cause and knowing
that we've fixed it," he said.
"Monday's flight will remain the true historic achievement, given the
total absence of government funding in the project. Indeed, as SpaceShipOne
was being towed back to the hangar, Melvill sat on top of the fuselage holding
a sign that read "SpaceShipOne, Government Zero."
At 8:15, SpaceShipOne landed (traveling about 90 mph), accompanied by its chase planes. It was somewhat silhouetted against the sun, but it was breathaking. We’d watched the descent, and it had been unbelievably rapid.
During the early morning vigil, I had befriended a school teacher by the name of Mike Mills. He had a digital camera and an expensive pair of binoculars that he could set atop a tripod. Later in the week, I would receive dozens of photos via e-mail from him. But now that SpaceShipOne had landed, we headed towards the large airstrip to the north. Beyond it stood the aircraft hangar where the spaceship found temporary refuge.
Then the pickup truck with the camper shell towed SpaceShipOne out of the hangar towards the runway that runs perpendicular to the major airstrip where we stood—the same runway it had to use for take-off and landing. The pilot stood atop the spaceship, his arms raised in victory. The crowd cheered. I lost track of Mike as I walked briskly along the runway fence, keeping up with the towed spaceship. Then the truck came to a stop. A guy beside me had made the sign referred to in the article excerpt above: "SpaceShipOne, Government Zero."As the pilot took photographs of the crowd (!), the driver of the pickup ran over to the excited crowd behind the fence, asked if he could have the sign, then took it over to the spaceship and handed it up to the pilot. At first, the pilot set it on the opposite side of the spaceship, resting it on the wing. For photographers in an accompanying vehicle, I think. The crowd started chanting for Melvill to hold up the sign for the crowd. He did, and the crowd roared with satisfaction.
Finally, Melvill and his spaceship were towed back to the hangar. I headed back to the airstrip, and somehow, amongst the thousands of people in attendance, ran right into Mike Mills again! We walked back to my truck. I told him that it was early (only about 10:00 or so), that I had driven a long way to Southern California, and that I should take advantge of the situation and go somewhere else---perhaps the ocean? Then we parted company. During the SpaceShipOne event, I had repeatedly phoned my aunt in Springfield, Missouri to keep her updated. Now, I talked to her again while sitting in the truck looking at the California map.
I decided to drive an estimated 90 miles to the Pacific Ocean. Well, that was the anticipated direct route via Hwy 14. But there was a surprise in store for me!
As I was driving through the San Gabriel Mountains south of Lancaster (located in Antelope Valley), I was looking at the map to better familiarize myself with the interstate jog I’d have to make from I-5 to I-405 (my initial destination was Santa Monica). But my eyes suddenly fell upon Simi Valley, and sparks flew in my brain. On television, I’d watched the June 11th funeral at the National Cathedral in Washington D.C., and the subsequent burial of Ronald Reagan at his presidential library in Simi Valley. He’d died on June 5, and the country had been immersed in reminiscences and eulogies for a week. I’d never known where Simi Valley was located. But there it was on the map! And only a few miles ahead of me, if I turned west on Highway 118 and traveled 25 miles or so, I’d find myself in Simi Valley. I could visit the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library just 10 days after the popular president had been interred! I gave the sudden detour a green light!
Simi Valley is a lovely place. The well manicured city is surrounded by mostly bald, grassy hills. With every Simi Valley exit I passed (Yosemite, Stearns, Tapo Canyon, etc.), I wondered, where’s the big highway sign indicating the exit to the library? This stretch of Hwy 118 was named after the president, so they couldn’t have overlooked it! Finally, as I’d passed at least half dozen exits, and wondering if I had already moved on to some other community, I took the Sycamore Drive exit to seek directions. I found a strip mall, and inquired inside Express Mail & Parcel. Not only were the folks helpful, but they gave me a large city map. Back on Hwy 118, I passed Erringer Road and First Street, and took the Madera Road exit. And, of course, the highway sign indicating the library was right there! The boulevard ran south to—what else?—Presidential Drive! The drive is a narrow two-lane road that winds up to the top of a tall hill. The parking lot was full, so people were parallel parked on both sides of this road. Since there was no place to make a U-turn, I went up and down the road several times before I lucked into a parking place a few hundred feet from the circle beyond which the main parking and library are located.
The Ronald Reagan Presidential Library is a sprawling hacienda (at this time, the flags were flying at half mast) with a large courtyard. From the front drive, visitors enter the courtyard, pass the presidential limousine parked on the right, and head towards the main lobby door on the opposite side. In the middle of the courtyard is a large pool and fountain. At the main lobby door is a large statue of Ronald Reagan. Due to his recent passing, there were masses of flowers at the foot of the statue, and even a few flowers stuffed into his hands. There was also an American flag composed of flowers to the right of the main door.
I entered the lobby and headed straight for the "back door." Beyond the library west facade is a flower-painted monolith. It’s a piece of the Berlin Wall. So fitting, considering Reagan once stood before a crowd in Berlin, and had demanded, "Mr. Gorbachev, tear down this wall!" From the west lawn, the visitor can look out over the Tierra Rejada Valley. Due west, beyond the hills somewhere, is the coastal city of Ventura...
I saw a crowd gathered around a spot to my left, and hastened to see if it was the resting place of America’s 40th President. It was, and it consisted of a stone circle half-bordered by a wall. In that wall was etched an inscription—a quote of Ronald Reagan’s: "I know in my heart that man is good. That what is right will always eventually triumph. And there's purpose and worth to each and every life." Reagan first used those words when he opened the library in 1991.
I read on a web site later that the "solid mahogany casket was sealed within a bronze-lined vault seven feet underground inside the crypt, which also includes space for Nancy Reagan."
I stepped aside and made a phone call to my parents. They were surprised to learn of my whereabouts. Then I charged $7 on my credit card and toured the library itself. A large exhibit on the Lewis and Clark expedition shared space with presidential and personal memorabilia. To list even a sampling of the items on display would take a considerable amount of space. I was particularly interested in the replica of the Oval Office, the Situation Room table, the SDI ("Star Wars") prototypes, the family Bible upon which Reagan lay his hand when taking the oath of office, his saddles and cowboy boots, a light blue 1965 Mustang convertible in which he had campaigned, and his World War II / Hollywood attire. I sat through a 22-minute video narrated by a retired Ronald Reagan.We’d been warned that it was a tear jerker....
I spent several hours at the library. After the tour, I visited the Gift Shop. There were a few items that interested me, but I limited by purchase to a $2.50 refrigerator magnet that features the aforementioned segment of the Berlin Wall.
It was now late Monday afternoon. All I’d eaten since Sunday’s pizza was a number of fudge granola bars I’d brought along with my thermos of water. I was hungry, and I decided that somewhere down the road, I’d have to get a bite to eat.
Just west of Simi Valley is Highway 23. At this point, in the Tierra Rejada Valley, it is a true highway, and leads to Thousand Oaks. I stopped at a Carl’s Jr. on Westlake Boulevard and ordered a burger and fries. By this time, I was down to a $5 bill and my credit card. I wanted to spend some time on the beach, but I knew the drop slots at the beach wouldn’t take credit cards! And that $5 was probably not enough. I asked the fast food cashier about the parking fees, and he said they used to be $10, but that, with California’s economy on the skids, the prices had gone up. Based on that information, I figured I would just have to settle for a little drive down the coastline to Santa Monica. I told the guy I was going to head due south on Hwy 23, and he told me I might not want to go that way, because it is a narrow, winding road. Sounded perfect to me!
Where the citified Westlake Boulevard ends, the backcountry segment of Highway 23 begins. I was delighted by how narrow this 2-lane road is, and by its 11 miles of twists and turns. The road snakes its way along ridges and cuts into hillsides that fall away into deep, narrow valleys. The frequent hairpin curves were so incredibly tight that I was tempted to hit the turn signals. I stopped at one valley overlook and snapped a photo. A small community of very nice homes was nestled (in the true sense of the word) in this gem of a valley. Its mountain backdrop included a majestic jutting horn of stone. Another valley around the corner was only sparsely populated, and I stopped here, too, for a photo. Up to this point in the journey along Hwy 23, the Santa Monica Mountains were typically arid and rocky, their slopes consisting of grasses and desert vegetation. But now all that changed. The greenery became more lush. I found myself driving through a forest. And the clear skies of a few miles back suddenly gave way to dense fog. The valleys below were completely immersed in fog. The road itself was fairly clear, but miniature clouds (not at all like the typical formless wisps of fog I’d experienced in the past) about the size of a Volkswagen beetle swept by me, crossing my path as I drove this narrow corridor of earth, as if this were a narrow peninsula surrounded by the sea. I passed a few ranches, and then came upon a spot that I hope my camera was able to photograph, it was so dark and misty. Several graceful, majestic trees arched over the road. And on the steep hillside, in the shade of these trees, was a 50-foot-long palisade of what appeared to be giant prickly pear cactus. These cactus, whatever their true variety, rose to a height of over 10 feet. I kid you not! I’d never seen anything like it before, and made a U-turn so that I could park my truck and just marvel at it...
Eventually, the fog dissipated and the Santa Monica Mountains once again displayed typical coastal range vegetation. Then, perhaps a mile ahead of me, but a thousand feet lower in elevation (according to the contour intervals on a topo map I have), the blue waters of the Pacific Ocean suddenly appeared in a cleft between mountainsides. I pulled over at a turnout. I was reminded of a V-shaped "window" on 168 Highway northwest of Death Valley where the eastern flank of the snowcapped Sierra Nevada range suddenly appears in all its glory. I watched a couple of vehicles climb their way to my elevation, and snapped a photo or two. Then I descended to the coast, coming to a stop at Highway 1.
I had abandoned the idea of actually spending time on the beach. But the cashier at Carl’s Jr. had referred to well known beaches when advising me of parking fees. Across Highway 1, less than a stone’s throw to the south, was a sign that read El Pescador State Beach. I decided to check it out. I would later learn that this was one of several such beaches on this stretch of the coast. A small parking lot sits back a couple dozen feet from a 100-foot bluff. I parked my truck, hiked over to the edge, and looked down 60 feet or so. I was at the midway point of a strand of deserted beach just a few hundred feet long. At the left end, a rocky point. At the right end, a private house whose patio catches the spray from the crashing waves. Cost of parking? A mere $2.00. I couldn’t believe my good fortune! I returned to the truck, paid my fee, and took the path down, which is stepped along the descent by square "railroad ties." Another car had arrived as I was looking the situation over. The family had beaten me to the sand, but they disappeared around the rocky point, and I had the beach to myself. After they returned to the parking lot, two couples showed up at separate times. But for most of the time, I was alone. Or as alone as one can be with a private house at beach’s end. At first, I naturally assumed that I was facing west. About a quarter of the sky was overcast (to my right). The other three quarters were a deep blue. The sun was hidden behind the clouds, hanging over the house, and so I deducted that the beach had a southern orientation. The clouds mass slowly moved away, and the sun began to find holes to shine through. I spent about 90 minutes on the beach, combing through the rocks, playing hide and seek with the crabs, and dodging the surf. I sat in the sand a good long while, too, and made a call to my sister, who was in Tennessee, somewhere in the Smoky Mountains near the North Carolina border. Cell phones—what a miraculous invention! I made a few more calls, too. I just had to share this moment with my landlocked friends and relatives.
During my phone call with my sister, a flock of pelicans swept the rushing waves just ahead of me. I counted 16 at least. I saw more pelicans later. They actually fly lower than the crest of the waves, and you’d swear they are going to be swept under. But these were pretty tall waves, because the wind that was pushing the cloud mass over my right shoulder was also stirring up the ocean, sending 4-foot waves crashing ashore.
I decided to leave El Pescador shortly before sunset. Although I would have enjoyed the blaze of colors, I would not have been able to actually see the sun sink into the ocean, because, as I said before, the beach did not face the west. So I jumped in the truck, and headed towards Santa Monica along Highway 1. Point Dume, Malibu, Topanga Beach... Just as I was approaching the Santa Monica Pier, unmistakeable due to its towering Ferris wheel, built right on the pier, Highway 1 split. I veered left. This is where Interstate 10 begins. I glanced at my watch: 8:10 pm. Early dusk.
It took me roughly an hour to cross the northern edge of L.A., and I once again noticed that due to its wild tangle of interstates, with its many shared corridors, I had to exit several times just to stay on the same highway! It wasn’t so bad on this crossing, but further into the city, to the south, it’s a miracle if a driver unfamiliar with the city can manage to stay on the same highway for any length of time. Experience has taught me that.
Since my return to Vegas, I’ve discovered on the map a mountain road, Highway 2, that is accessible from the desert flank of the San Gabriel Mountain range (or by cutting across on Hwy 138 at Cajon Summit, elev. 4,257 ft.), and which winds its way through this range to Burbank, at which point it becomes a boulevard passing through Hollywood and Beverly Hills on its way to Santa Monica. The city stretch is about a fourth of the distance across L.A. Of course, this route to the coast may not be any quicker than taking the interstates through the valley, but it would be a lot more scenic, and a helluva lot less stressful. Additionally, there are campgrounds along the route. I’m going to try it next time I head for the beach!
On the night drive back to Las Vegas, I stopped just outside Barstow for a few dollars of gasoline. Back in Vegas, I’d paid $2.05 at the corner gas station. Across California, I’d been paying a little more, between $2.18 and $2.23 a gallon. Here, on the home stretch, I paid $2.54/gallon. Too much, but I hate traveling at night with a half tank of gas. I only bought $15 worth.
June 22
I arrived home early Tuesday morning. Exactly 1:00 am. After checking my e-mail, and sending a few messages, I finally hit the sack. I’d gotten up at 3:00 in the afternoon on Sunday. I went to bed–finally–at 3:00 in the morning Tuesday. Thirty-six hours.
I’d also driven 674.3 miles.
A very long day, but a very rewarding one.
I’d witnessed an historic suborbital space flight with thousands of spectators in the Mojave Desert. I’d visited the Ronald Reagan Presidential Library, with its hilltop panorama, just eight days after the 40th President’s body was laid to rest there. I’d driven a narrow and sinuous ribbon of asphalt above deep, fog-laden valleys. And I had enjoyed a virtually private beach on the Pacific Ocean, where low-flying pelicans dip beneath the breaking surf.
David E. Miller
The photos below are provided with the permission of the photographer, Mike Mills, who I met in Mojave, California. Thanks, Mike!
ABOVE: A panoramic view of the airport at Mojave.
ABOVE: The White Knight (mother ship) and SpaceShipOne,(rocket ship) prepare for take-off.
ABOVE: SpaceShipOne landing after its historic flight.
ABOVE: Mike Melvill, SpaceShipOne in tow, signaling victory to the crowd.
ABOVE: Mike Melvill holding up a sign that reads: "SpaceShipOne, Government Zero."
ABOVE: Space enthusiasts cheer on SpaceShipOne.