Chicanonautica: Homeward Through Planet Nevada

by Ernest Hogan

Getting back to Planet Nevada, gas was $3.69 in the town of Jackpot.

“These gas prices make no sense,” said Mike.

Then wide-open spaces. Cattle country. Surreal landscapes with clouds casting shadows as they caressed mountains dusted with snow.

A lot of America, even in the 21st century, is empty—at least of the unnatural act called civilization—and quiet. We passed through a lot of places without cell service on this trip. Hope some of it stays that way.

The entire town of McGill seemed to be closed or boarded up.

A few houses were occupied, and sporting Halloween paraphernalia.

Near Ely, on highway 101 was a magnificent automobile graveyard.

Behemoths from a past era rusting in the sun. 

If only they could speak.

There were signs of danger.

Further along was a tank.

and a piece of artillery in front of VFW hall.

Then, there was the Prospector Hotel & Casino.

In the middle of a vast nowhere, an ancient covered wagon and sculptures beckoned visitors.

Colorful dinosaurs shared the winding driveway with a copper stagecoach with horses, driver and dog.

Centuries collapse in a time warp where past, present, and future are one.

We passed an old, old sign announcing EMIGRANT SPRINGS. Back in the 19th century the people we call pioneers were called emigrants, because they were leaving the United States of America.

An abandoned truck had TRUMP 2024 painted on it in huge letters.

We went from highway to highway. 93 . .  . 168 . . . 269. Numbers calling out in the timespace continuum. My intergalactic road in broad daylight.

Mike took us on a detour because he wanted to see Valley of Fire State Park.

And it was well worth it.

We hit it in the nick of time–the setting sun was setting the rocks ablaze. 

The moon provided cosmic contrast.

Finally, in Las Vegas gas was $4.89 a gallon.

We spent the night at the Henderson place. I dreamed about killer chimps.

Next morning, homeward. And once again, the country has changed. Are we somehow causing it through our travel? Or is it just that our perspectives have been altered?

Back on the road, a burly pickup with a FUCK BIDEN decal whizzed by.

We went through places we had driven through earlier, only this time we could see the landscape in blazing sunlight. Puts a different spin on Stephen Fry reading ghost stories.

Meanwhile, in Washington, Republicans were going after each other like piranha after a chunk of bloody meat. And I really hope that Biden doesn’t become the 21st century LBJ . . .

The road corkscrewed in and out of the sun.

In the desert near Kingman, in a freshly installed, walled housing tract, a house flew the stars and stripes, a DON’T TREAD ON ME flag, and a Kari Lake banner.

The Love’s truck stop in Kingman was selling gas for $4.29 a gallon.

When we got home, the neighbors had set up a spectacular Halloween tableau,

and one of our agaves had sprouted a stalk.

The next day someone stole the plastic skeletons from the neighbor’s front yard, even though they were tied down. Seems that while miniature and giant plastic skeletons are plentiful, life-sized ones are hard to find and expensive.

Ernest Hogan wants you to buy Guerrilla Mural of a Siren’s Song: 15 Gonzo Science Fiction Stories, and watch for announcements about his reading from it in the podcast version of Gómez-Peña’s Mex Files.