Nevada

I’ve been to the Las Vegas airport twice. Maybe thrice. Seen the slot machines for the layover crowd. Never tried it.

Being in an airport, alas, doesn’t count as being in a place. I’m not even sure I can count it in the Yes-but-No category.

I would (believe it or not) like to see Vegas. It would be something to behold, and I’m curious to check out a couple of those hotels. I’m guessing I could stomach it for a day and a half, maybe two. Then I’d need to get out into that beautiful surrounding desert my friends go on about.

Five years ago I got a glimpse of Nevada. It’s another drive-through situation, but it is fresh enough—and pretty enough—in my mind to count it (sorry, Kansas and Nebraska).

Tim and I were in California to celebrate our twenty-fifth wedding anniversary. We went to San Francisco, then swung down to Yellowstone, then over to Mono Lake. From Mono Lake we were heading to Fall River Mills, and the quickest route took us through that western section of Nevada where the border angles about 135°. (Is that a good geometry guess? Vesper Sparrow, help me out here.)

It was a gorgeous drive along mountains and through stereotypical western-looking country, east of Lake Tahoe. We drove north, through Carson City and the eventual sprawl of Reno. We must have stopped somewhere, but I don’t remember exactly. I do remember feeling like I was there enough, aware enough, to count it as being in Nevada.

Been there?: Yes