Many miles west, yet still in Texas, I stopped for the evening in El Paso. For the next week I had scheduled a dizzying tour of four states, another continent and some of the most memorable sites on the planet. All booked with fledgling optimism in the sanctuary of my relatively tranquil Alpine base, I was investing a rather large leap of faith in America’s dubious public transport network if I was to make all the relevant connections in anything close to resembling the appropriate time.
With an evening to spare before the fun started, I foolhardily dismissed the advice of new acquaintances in Texas and crossed the border into Mexico. Unlike the tourist favoured central and coastal regions, the vast border town of Juarez was said to be real bandito country. Naysayers had reeled off statistics of tourist killings and gave warning of the violent drug cartels that run at large. Without wishing to trivialize an undeniably serious problem, I have to say I ventured south and back unscathed and witnessed no more of a hint of trouble than I would on a Saturday night in Britain. Not that that is exactly selling you the idea. True to the skepticism, wary Americans were noticeable by their absence. I was the only non-Hispanic sole in view as I took in a couple of bars and savoured the seismic drop in prices. My real concern, getting back into the States, was eased by a routine passport check and 35 cents entrance fee. Over the Rio Grande from the pothole streets and ramshackle stores I was back in the land of privilege.
With perhaps unnecessary but nonetheless welcome luxury I made a trouble free entrance by air into Arizona, another huge state of stunningly variable climate and landscape. I changed at Phoenix, a city of desert climes, on the way to Flagstaff, a matter of half an hour away on a bumpy plane ride, but an altogether more welcoming environment. Flagstaff boasted the warming kiss of the sun and the cooling breeze from the mountains in a pine forest setting. It was arguably the most idyllic place I had visited from the many miles I had passed through and I would have happily stayed longer but I was headed for the states undeniable star attraction – the Grand Canyon. Satisfied by the pleasing ambience and the prospect of the wonders that would follow, I was content to wait for the Chicago train heading for Los Angeles. And wait I did. As it transpired, the Southwest Chief service, impeded in the flood hit mid-west, was delayed until 3am. To my utmost frustration, I only needed to progress one stop and 30 miles down the road to Williams, and so drawing on the “time is money” mantra, I eventually cut my losses and took a taxi. My journey which had appeared cunningly cost-effective mapped out on a computer screen was developing as unnecessarily convoluted. I was staying at the Grand Canyon Hotel on the famous Route 66 but I was still an hours drive from the National Park.
Regardless, I had been favoured with such memorable sights as to diminish any minor inconveniences and I knew this detour would not be in vain. I don’t believe anybody could fail to be impressed by the Grand Canyon. People in the US often express their envy at the lavish history of European cities, but in landmarks such as the Grand Canyon they have true historical landmarks of their own, the Canyon being billions of years in the making. Like most visitors, I saw it from the south rim and a relatively insignificant portion of it at that. I hiked down someway in the ferocity of the midday sun, with a reliance on the staggering views and the adrenalin charged by the significant drop to keep me going. It carved everlasting memories but it didn’t swallow me whole. Something I feared Las Vegas might do.
I moved on to Kingman, another Arizona town along Route 66, on the train delayed by some eight hours. I was to catch the dreaded Greyhound to Nevada.
Fears spiraled over which catastrophe I would be met with this time on the maligned monster but I’m happy to concede that I made my way through the desert in good time. Not that the ride was without incident. Just outside Vegas the bus was stopped by four plain clothes policemen looking for a fugitive they seemed convinced was among the traveling party. They questioned a few with the aggression of the archetypal American cop but failed to land their man. Nobody aboard appeared inconvenienced by the episode. It just all seemed like part of the show to come.
Las Vegas may be well established as the entertainment capital of the world but by evidence of all the construction the party just seems to be getting started. I took advantage of the cities affordable luxury and paid about $60 for a night in a big castle along the strip. A Vegas take on a castle at least. My room overlooked the New York New York, which features a replica Manhattan skyline, a Statue of Liberty and a rollercoaster that launches from inside the casino and propels itself around the edge of the complex. Resolutely refusing to be taken in by it all, I set a modest $50 betting limit, which I doubled on the roulette table in about 20 minutes. My exterior was high-roller nonchalant but inside I was riding that rollercoaster beside the New York skyline, showering the punters below with dollar bills and wearing gold top hat for good measure. Flushed with promise I tried my luck at another casino and lost my profit as quickly as I had come by it. I was happy to leave it at that.
I stayed just one night in America’s playground, before ending my wild week in Los Angeles. I had finally made my way from the Atlantic to the Pacific coast and I was hungry for more.
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
Friday, July 4, 2008
Alpine, Texas
The Sunset train service travels from New Orleans, off the Gulf of Mexico, to the Pacific coast and Los Angeles. It takes the best part of two days to run its course and costs in the region of $200 to ride.
With the current floods in the mid-west disrupting services nationwide it would probably amount to about half a week to tackle the route in its entirety.
I suspect you'd have to be especially committed to the romance of the railroad to expend that much time and money on a domestic excursion.
Or maybe you'd just have to be committed.
Feeling only slightly demented, I met the Sunset around its halfway point, in San Antonio, the home of the Alamo, around 80 miles south of Austin.
I was headed west for a mere eight hour journey and another stint at reporting on the goings on in small town Texas.
The size of Texas is such that it could accommodate a healthy chunk of western Europe and still leave room to lasso a cat.
I ventured hundreds of miles without seeing a settlement among the spectacular hill country and occasional twister.
This was just moving from the south central region to the states western reaches. I had seen nothing of the panhandle or the three hundred odd miles of coastline.
There was some evidence of life though among the tumbleweeds. These seemingly endless plains are largely private ranch land, usually thousands of acres apiece. The earth here is so arid that it tends to support only one horse or cow per hundred of those acres. Hill fires have scorched a significant bulk of that over the last couple of months and as if that isn't enough to worry about, a prevalence of mountain lions are said to poach a number of the livestock that can survive.
Nestled within this high desert setting is Alpine, a town with a population of just under 6,000, at the hub of the Big Bend National Park. Here I would be working at the Alpine Avalanche, a weekly publication with a name I doubt could be bettered.
Fittingly my accommodation for the duration was like something out of the wild west, just without the Indians or the bordello's.
I couldn't say it was a tranquil stay though. The great freight trains put paid to that. Carrying 200 compartments a time, these behemoths can't even be dwarfed by the vast countryside. Unlike their passenger counterparts, they would run with brutal efficiency through the night, parping in unmistakable shrill tones as a matter of caution. All yards from my hotel window.
Free from the identikit nature of chain motels, my lodging offered chintzy furniture and modest comfort with no pretension. After a tough day at the ranch (or slumped in front of the Apple Mac) you could savour the home-made brews and a sirloin steak the size of your head. I think that's considered an appetiser in Texas.
Down the road I witnessed a bar brawl break out at a local cowboy haunt, only to see it quickly quelled by the onset of the town sheriff. Lawlessness has never really been afforded much breathing space in Alpine. After all, it was the last town in Texas to hang somebody.
Away from Austin's trendy bar scene, this was more the Texas I had imagined from afar. That was a view it seems shared by Hollywood producers. This small pocket of west Texas was the location for films such as 'Giant' and the more recent Oscar successes 'No country for old men' and 'There will be blood'. Together with that western mystique and the big country scenery, the cause of Alpine and neighbouring Marfa as a film haven was probably aided in part by their direct link to the studio's in Los Angeles. Not that there'd be a quick exit if a genuine gunfight developed.
One of the local celebrities was the photographer for the Avalanche, who despite all logic to the contrary, is blind.
I half expected to see close-ups of buckets in the place of victorious local sports teams but his work, as indeed his occasional writing, was as impressive as his desire to take on such a task with his unfortunate affliction.
His quirky nature would be at home in Marfa, a town 20 miles down the road that due to its previous anonymity, attracted New York minimalist artist Donald Judd to take root there and create his looming sculptures away from the limelight. Today, with an irony not lost on the natives, it attracts dozens of other big city artists to do the same, and, despite still being less than half the size of Alpine, mark its place prominently on the map.
Satisfied I had seen as many oddities as a small town could muster, I rode off into the sunset on the thrice weekly train, which, pleasingly for those riding it cross country, arrived bang on time.
With the current floods in the mid-west disrupting services nationwide it would probably amount to about half a week to tackle the route in its entirety.
I suspect you'd have to be especially committed to the romance of the railroad to expend that much time and money on a domestic excursion.
Or maybe you'd just have to be committed.
Feeling only slightly demented, I met the Sunset around its halfway point, in San Antonio, the home of the Alamo, around 80 miles south of Austin.
I was headed west for a mere eight hour journey and another stint at reporting on the goings on in small town Texas.
The size of Texas is such that it could accommodate a healthy chunk of western Europe and still leave room to lasso a cat.
I ventured hundreds of miles without seeing a settlement among the spectacular hill country and occasional twister.
This was just moving from the south central region to the states western reaches. I had seen nothing of the panhandle or the three hundred odd miles of coastline.
There was some evidence of life though among the tumbleweeds. These seemingly endless plains are largely private ranch land, usually thousands of acres apiece. The earth here is so arid that it tends to support only one horse or cow per hundred of those acres. Hill fires have scorched a significant bulk of that over the last couple of months and as if that isn't enough to worry about, a prevalence of mountain lions are said to poach a number of the livestock that can survive.
Nestled within this high desert setting is Alpine, a town with a population of just under 6,000, at the hub of the Big Bend National Park. Here I would be working at the Alpine Avalanche, a weekly publication with a name I doubt could be bettered.
Fittingly my accommodation for the duration was like something out of the wild west, just without the Indians or the bordello's.
I couldn't say it was a tranquil stay though. The great freight trains put paid to that. Carrying 200 compartments a time, these behemoths can't even be dwarfed by the vast countryside. Unlike their passenger counterparts, they would run with brutal efficiency through the night, parping in unmistakable shrill tones as a matter of caution. All yards from my hotel window.
Free from the identikit nature of chain motels, my lodging offered chintzy furniture and modest comfort with no pretension. After a tough day at the ranch (or slumped in front of the Apple Mac) you could savour the home-made brews and a sirloin steak the size of your head. I think that's considered an appetiser in Texas.
Down the road I witnessed a bar brawl break out at a local cowboy haunt, only to see it quickly quelled by the onset of the town sheriff. Lawlessness has never really been afforded much breathing space in Alpine. After all, it was the last town in Texas to hang somebody.
Away from Austin's trendy bar scene, this was more the Texas I had imagined from afar. That was a view it seems shared by Hollywood producers. This small pocket of west Texas was the location for films such as 'Giant' and the more recent Oscar successes 'No country for old men' and 'There will be blood'. Together with that western mystique and the big country scenery, the cause of Alpine and neighbouring Marfa as a film haven was probably aided in part by their direct link to the studio's in Los Angeles. Not that there'd be a quick exit if a genuine gunfight developed.
One of the local celebrities was the photographer for the Avalanche, who despite all logic to the contrary, is blind.
I half expected to see close-ups of buckets in the place of victorious local sports teams but his work, as indeed his occasional writing, was as impressive as his desire to take on such a task with his unfortunate affliction.
His quirky nature would be at home in Marfa, a town 20 miles down the road that due to its previous anonymity, attracted New York minimalist artist Donald Judd to take root there and create his looming sculptures away from the limelight. Today, with an irony not lost on the natives, it attracts dozens of other big city artists to do the same, and, despite still being less than half the size of Alpine, mark its place prominently on the map.
Satisfied I had seen as many oddities as a small town could muster, I rode off into the sunset on the thrice weekly train, which, pleasingly for those riding it cross country, arrived bang on time.
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