Road Trip #15 Fresno, Bakersfield, Las Vegas, Zion National Park

Zion National Park at Sunset

     Fresno is not the prettiest town I’ve ever seen.  It’s not even in the top ten.  We looked for California olive oil in Fresno but were not successful, so we pointed the big Ford south toward Bakersfield.  Because Tioga Pass at Yosemite was snowed in and no other roads go through the mountains, we detoured around them.  As I have indicated, we are nothing if not flexible.

     The city of Bakersfield has no business being in California.  It is a hard-hat, red-necked, working-man kind of town, on the edge of the desert, with nothing of the fantastic scenery so prevalent in most of the state.  All in all, it would be a much more fitting neighbor for Odessa, Texas, than any other place I have been, even Midland, which is very urban and highly sophisticated when compared to Bakersfield. 

     Housing developments here tend to be trailer parks, with ubiquitous washaterias and convenience stores on every corner. There are precious few commercial office buildings downtown, probably just enough to provide offices so the folks with red necks and white socks can have car insurance---and lawyers to handle DWIs and divorces.

     Perhaps because of the working-class mindset, Bakersfield is a hotbed of country music.  Merle Haggard got his start here, after serving time in San Quentin for armed robbery.  Buck Owens helped make the “Bakersfield Sound” popular.  Dwight Yoakum did “The Streets of Bakersfield” and topped the country charts for a time.  All the places that sell cold beer and play country music were closed when we went through.  Otherwise, Wayne and I might still be there.   

     We looked around for California olive oil, and finding none, we headed east, toward Vegas.  About twenty miles out, we followed some colorful signs off the freeway and into a highly publicized orange grove.   In the center of the grove, well off the highway, stood a combination packing plant and roadside fruit stand.  The whole operation was housed in a whitewashed concrete block building. 

     In the production area of the building, several stocky Hispanic women in Wal-Mart floral-print dresses and Nike knock-off shoes were stationed at a long conveyor belt, grading and boxing fresh-picked oranges.  In the manner of working people everywhere, they gossiped and laughed as they worked.   These were not entry level girls, trying to work their way out of poverty.  These were mature women, most likely with alcoholic husbands and four or five children at home in a rented trailer house.  They were out of options—they had to grade and box those oranges---and they had to keep up with the conveyor belt, for they were paid by the finished box.  Even so, with all their chatter, they did their best to make the job bearable.

     On the opposite side of the building, the market side, all kind of California produce was available.  Some of it was fresh, but the shelving groaned with all sorts of canned, jarred and boxed goodies.  Processed foods have a longer shelf life and this was, after all, a tourist trap.  We saw at least seven different kinds of California olive oil---fresh, cold-pressed, extra virgin, filtered, unfiltered, you name it.  After all this time, suddenly we had too many choices.

     The manager, a pear-shaped Bakersfield native with tight jeans and a slight overbite, could not have been more helpful.  She offered free samples, touted the local products and explained that only inferior oranges grow east of Arizona.  If I understood her, that’s because of the lack of proper stressing on the orange trees.  A very dry climate allows all moisture to enter the orange tree through the root system and not by osmosis as in places with high humidity.  She told us this creates a sweeter orange.  According to her, Florida and Texas have far too much humidity to ever grow sweet oranges.  Wayne and I bought olive oil and several other items from this talkative lady and she threw in a sack of good, sweet, California oranges.  No charge---we had not lost our touch.

     As we pulled back onto the freeway, I asked, “Wayne, what did you think of that ole gal’s idea about how to grow sweet oranges?”

     “She’s full of crap as a Christmas turkey.” 
      It is amazing how you get to thinking alike if you grow up in Lubbock and run the blacktop together long enough.

    We passed through Las Vegas on the freeway and never slowed down.  I saw, from the elevated roadway, the place where I lived for a year during my misspent youth.  At least, I saw approximately where my apartment had been.  When I lived in Vegas, the “Strip” was less than two miles long and there were only sixty-five thousand people in town.  About thirty thousand more lived in Nevada’s answer to Bakersfield, North Las Vegas.   A total of maybe one hundred thousand in the whole valley.  I’ve often wondered how my life would have differed if I’d stayed there.

     It was time for an oil change on Wayne’s big Ford pick-up, so we stopped in North Las Vegas and asked a couple of semi-evolved young men about the nearest Ford dealer. If they could remember where the Ford dealer was located, they lacked the communication skills to pass along that information.  We gave up after a few minutes and headed for the state line at Mesquite, hoping to get there before the local dealer closed.   At a quarter of five, that dealer told us he stopped taking oil changes at four-thirty.  We decided to wait until tomorrow and get it done in Arizona.

     St. George, Utah is a clean, orderly, neat little city.  We dropped off the freeway there and took Utah Hwy 89 toward Kanab, through Zion National Park.  The park is absolutely spectacular.  From the standpoint of natural beauty, it is a heart-stopper, easily on a par with others we saw on this trip; Crater Lake, Redwood Forest, Mount Shasta or Yosemite. Equally beautiful but entirely different.

This shot, taken out the window at 75 miles per hour, demonstrates the beauty of the place, not the skill of the photographer

 

     The colors are stunning---horizontal striations on the landscape vary from deep brown through maroon and dark red to rose and orange to yellow, light grey, and stark white.  Desert colors.  A primitive crooked, but paved, road offers magnificent vistas in all directions, and connects several long and narrow tunnels through the mountains.  These 1935-era tunnels are so narrow traffic has to be restricted to one way by a series of synchronized traffic signals.  “Windows” carved through the outer walls of the tunnels allow light inside.  Retrofitted electric lights help illuminate the interiors.

     Kanab is a small, but well-kept little town, and dark was approching, so we decided to stop there rather than press on to Page , Arizona.  We had a good choice of motel accommodations.  Wayne negotiated a deal with a young Arab in charge, and we settled into our home for the evening.  Diagonally across the street, an inviting neon sign alternately announced “Mexican Food--- Cold Beer.” 

     We strolled over to the glass and Formica fifties-style cafe.  It wasn’t retro, it was just old, but let me tell you, those Utah Mexicans know what they’re up to.  We could have been in Big Spring.  We sat in a shiny booth in the brightly-lighted little place and listened to Merle Haggard as we feasted on cheesy Tex-Mex beef enchiladas and fresh, cold, chunky guacamole.  The beer was icy cold and the hot sauce brought tears to my eyes.  People don’t always notice little things like that---and those things are just what make life so very special.

     

Some girls do sabatage themselves, don't they?