DAY 14

Amigos!

So, I made it into Roswell on the 16th of July, just in time to miss seeing "Roswell--The Musical!" Heavy bumming all around.
The International UFO Museum and Research Center (or the IUFOMRC to those hipsters in the know) is very cool, very detailed, very thorough, and very free. Newspaper articles, signed affidavits, photos, models, diaramas, an incredibly well-stocked library....enough for many many conspiracies, but concentrating mainly on what happened in July of 1947.

I don't know what I really believe on the subject of extraterrestrials, but all the evidence I saw certainly points to something very strange that happened in 1947 that sent the government scrambling to cover it up. Aliens from another planet? Top secret flying machine from Area 51? I have the feeling that the mystery is much more delicious and interesting than the truth would be. But where else am I gonna find an alien Christmas stocking?

Saw "Scary Movie" "Rocky and Bullwinkle" and "X-Men." I recommend them in that order, too.

Sign on the side of the road: TRUC STOP. I immediately thought: "Vietnamese Truckers Only."

Carlsbad Caverns is yet another cool place out in the middle of nowhere. About 25 miles south of the city of Carlsbad, Carlsbad Caverns National Monument is near the very top of a winding road attached to the sides of some brush covered hills. You drive up and up, winding around and around (passing, every so often, an Historical Marker that nobody else stops at either). You round the final corner and head towards a YOOOOGE parking lot, with an adobe/stucco building plopped in the middle.

Admission to the caverns starts at $6.00 and goes up depending on how strenuous you want your tour to be, whether or not you want a guide, etc.

After paying my $6.00, I headed to the elevator. The ranger rapidly recited a list of rules (that were lost on the Spanish-speaking group behind me) and then we all crowded into the elevator.

As we began our decent, the young elevator operator turned off the lights in the elevator itself. The shaft that the elevator was descending in was lighted so that we could see the rocky walls going past as we went.

150 ft. 200 ft. 250. 300. I felt a little like Charlie in the Chocolate Factory watching the rock walls zip by as we went down...down...down...

500. 550. 600. 650. Now I imagined that this was the beginning of a new cool ride at Disneyland: The Creepy Caverns.

700...750...My ears popped. The door opened and I stepped into utter coolness.

As I walked through the Big Room (self-guided tour of about 1.5 miles) I was stunned. The formations in these caverns are beautiful, fascinating, colorful, and must be seen to be believed. Huge stalactites, stalagmites, cathedrals, drinking straws, every corner I turned brought something new into view.

And then...well..I began to have a big deja vu feeling. I felt like I was, again, in line for some cool new ride. The formations were becoming recognizable because (I assume) artisans from Knott's and Disneyland had copied these same formations when they created the Calico Mine Train and the Mine Ride Through Rainbow Caverns and Nature's Wonderland (for you youngsters that was where Big Thunder Railroad stands today).

As I walked through the caverns I half expected a roller coaster to go roaring by, or a mine train filled with tourists to chug past on its way to the Mining Company station for disembarking.

When I finished with the tour (about an hour later) I used the restroom and immediately thought: "Here I am, 750 feet underground, flushing a toilet...where does this go?" (see what happens when you spend so much time alone? your thoughts turn on you)

I mean, does some high-powered pump push all of it up to the surface? Is there a septic tank buried down here 750 feet underground? Does it just dump out in some unused, uglier cavern?

No, I didn't ask.

After the caverns, I headed on out to Texas, and made it to the little podunk town of Fort Stockton. I stopped at the Comanche Motel. It was a series of white buildings, painted with really ugly and not-very- authentic Native American symbols, along with silhouettes of cowboys and indians painted in black.

Very tacky. Of course I stayed there.

I bought dinner (Sonic Drive-in, home of the very addictive Watermelon Slush), watched a little tv, read a bit, wrote a bit (whoa...don't get us too envious over your exciting nightlife, Hansen...) and started nodding off to sleep around 11:00.

A little after midnight, someone was pounding on my door.

I was awake, up and out of bed, and my heart was pounding a furious tattoo against my ribcage. Did I smell smoke? No. Did I hear sirens? No.

Who the hell was at the door? I heard voices. Girl voices.

Got dressed and went to the door--and noticed for the first time that there was no peephole.

Damn.

Do I answer it? Do I ignore?

I opened the door with the safety chain on. Two young ladies (mid 20s maybe?) looking expectantly at me. I had an insane idea to shout back into the room, "Dude! The hookers are here!" but instead I just said, "Hi."

They were driving from New York to California (Napa, to be exact--how coincidental!) and spotted what they assumed was a fellow road-tripper's car (piled with a sleeping bag, maps, and clothes, it wasn't hard to spot). They took a chance and knocked.

So we chatted for a few minutes, comparing road stories, places of interest, etc. They took video of me for their "documentary" and I took pics of them. Nice folk.

I told them about "Roswell--The Musical!" and they flipped over it. They were definitely going to be there.

We said our goodbyes, and went to sleep. When I left the next morning, their car was still there. I left a nice note (sarcasm: minimal) and headed off to Houston.

I have noticed more houses being moved around here than I've ever seen before in my entire life. Like any other roadside stand, houses are lined up, ready for inspection and for sale. Big old houses, pre-fabs, looking for all intents and purposes like "real" houses. I guess when you have a state with as much open flat space as Texas has, buying a parcel of land and then moving the house you like onto the lot makes sense. Find the view you like, then find the house you like, then put one on the other. Makes some kind of sense.

Of course, when you're stuck behind one of these behemoths, with nothing to watch for miles except the ass-end of a pick-up truck with yellow flashing lights and "OVERSIZED LOAD" on the back of it, you question the practice.

Having no air conditioning, I spend a lot of time driving with my driver's side window down. The air blowing in through the open window is cool and refreshing, and I love the feel of it blowing my hair around.

Usually.

I'm driving, I'm singing along, the wind is blowing, and then--something about the size and weight of a small screw buzzes in, hits my chest, and lands on my zipper.

At 75 miles an hour, I take my eyes off of the road and look down. A black-and-yellow striped yellowjacket is crawling on my crotch.

Do I calmly slow down, pull over, and deal with my new intimate friend?

I do not. I start a movement which, in the late 60s/early 70s, was politely referred to as "wigging out." Speeding down the road, I take both hands off the wheel and start slapping at my groin, while at the same time marching my thighs up and down, pounding my feet rapidly against the floor of my car.

Yes, mom, I know this was dangerous. I promise never to let a stinging insect affect me like this ever again.

(smirking roll of eyes)

No, have no idea what any of this was supposed to accomplish.

Anyway, the insect fell from my privates to the floor of my car. Still driving (I think I managed to get one hand back on the wheel by then) I stomped it, stomped it again. I peeked between my legs--was that it? That little thing--HOLY SHIT, IS IT STILL MOVING?!?

More stomping and smushing.

Oops, stoplight coming up.

It's dead, I think. I finally pull over and, using one of the thousands of paper napkins I received at the last fast food place I ate at, picked it up and tossed it out.

Whew.

Continued onto Houston, where I am now, staying with a very dear old friend (Hi, Ilene). I'll be leaving here on Sunday and driving to New Orleans. I'll stay in the Big Easy Sunday and Monday night, and then (on Tuesday) head on up north...somewhere...

I'll keep you posted.

Peace,

--Mike