Rachel's Road Trip: Farther West

I don’t know if it was the bright lights, or having my own shower, but I loved Las Vegas from the moment the Subaru and I hit the strip. I left Zion National Park in Utah on July 14, and after a quick detour to Hoover Dam, settled into my temporary home at the New York-New York Hotel, filling the wastebasket with ice for my perishables. I happily wandered through hotels and casinos, birdwatching at the Bellagio, admiring the Wynn gardens, and smiling over ingenious bathroom-stall cup holders. I bought a bus pass so I could cover more ground, and met a friendly driver who invited me to see Cirque du Soliel’s tribute to Michael Jackson with him later, before dropping me off on Fremont Street to explore historic Vegas. I hesitated for a second, decided he must have cleared some kind of security screening to drive a bus for the city, and accepted. After all - Vegas!

On July 16, I moved my perishables back to the travel fridge and returned to the road, grabbing a cronut from the lobby bakery in a last act of glorious decadence. As I drove north through Death Valley, the temperature climbed into the 100s. I prefer driving with the sunroof open and windows down, but when my cell phone overheated and my coffee cup got hotter outside than in, I threw in the sweaty towel and turned on the AC. I drove miles through Nevada without seeing other cars, past exits labeled “no services,” a perplexing sign saying it was illegal to pick up hitchhikers, and then the Nevada State Penitentiary.

As the afternoon progressed, dark clouds rolled in and the temperature plummeted. By the time I reached my campsite on the eastern edge of Yosemite National Park, it was 45 degrees and raining too steadily to put up the tent. I dug out my warmest clothes, fixed and ate dinner under the Subaru’s back hatch, relocated all food and toiletries to the metal “bear box” provided at the site, and carved out room to sleep in the back seat. I crawled into my sleeping bag just as the last light was fading, and awoke in the night to a peaceful campground. Then I set off the car alarm trying to get out to use the bathroom.

Yosemite was gorgeous, and so big I could have easily spent weeks there hiking trails and swimming in mountain lakes. Yet on Saturday, July 19, it was time to head west once more - toward San Jose and San Francisco.

I’d heard of the Winchester House years ago on a television special about “America’s Most Haunted Places,” and knew then I had to see it. Distraught over the deaths of her husband and daughter, Sarah Winchester visited a medium who said she was haunted by the ghosts of those killed by the Winchester Rifle, and that their spirits would come after her, too, unless she moved west and built them a home. Construction started on the house in San Jose in 1884, and continued around the clock until her death 36 years later. The resulting 160 rooms are like an Escher print, with stairways into ceilings, hallways doubling back on themselves, and doorways to nowhere. It was architecturally and psychologically fascinating.

After I’d taken every tour they offered, I drove on to San Francisco. I parked the Subaru on an enormous hill in front of my Airbnb host Phil’s house, remembering my driver’s ed training as I angled the tires and engaged the emergency brake. I spent a relaxed Sunday strolling the waterfront, admiring murals, trying to glimpse the Golden Gate Bridge through the fog, and rooting for San Francisco at the annual California Firefighters Stickball Tournament. On Monday, July 21, I left San Francisco and headed north toward Napa Valley, deliberately driving across the Golden Gate Bridge so I could see it on my way. Nope. Current mile count: 5700.