Are you going to San Francisco

Departure. The night. Change of drivers. Balmorhea A desert rain. Marfa. New Mexico night. Indian Jewelry. Flagstaff. The mountains. Descent to the desert. Lake Havasu. Bats in the night. Sleep. The Colorado River. The desert. We all sing. San Francisco.

When everyone finally assembles, gear is arranged, packs are hung, anticipation tears through the San Marcos humidity. A close friend comes by to wish us well. By midnight we have collected last-minute personal items from the local Wal-Mart and given the Funky Bus its inaugural fill-up.

As excitement dissipates, sleep picks off people one by one, and Jaime and I are left to subdue the endless night. I-10 looms straight and black and empty, plummeting before us in steady eternal black. Jaime tells another story - probably involving motorized vehicles, ramps, and inevitable injury – and the trance evaporates; I drive on.

Sarah takes the driving responsibility as the night begins to glow, expectant and intimate with the coming morning. When day finally breaks, we refresh ourselves in the San Solomon Springs. Water in strata of blue and deeper blue that stretches beneath our feet. It is crystalline and cool and tastes like sulfur. Ben swims down to touch the pool bottom, which appears just below my outstretched feet but is never reached. Ben becomes a tiny dot still visible through my goggles and then a sine wave of red and brown – swim trunks and skin that shimmers once again to the surface. Intermittently some sit by the springs and others bask in the sun. Sarah and I try to sleep.

Collectively we decide to visit Marfa. We are only an hour away. We drive through the Davis Mountains and rain falls in sheets around us and we move through it, sunlight still bright and the smell of rain and drops of rain coming in through the bus windows.

In Marfa most of the shops and galleries are already closed. We wander aimlessly in the heat until we find a local points us toward a nearby bar. Padre’s is cool and dark, an old building modified to indulge the Marfa perception of hip, aged stucco walls and red iron mixed with track lighting and modern art. We share a pitcher or two of cold beer and exchange stories (mostly for the purpose of extracting the epic one-liners of the previous blog).

In the night we reach New Mexico. Sleeping in the bus requires great tenacity. Six people affix themselves to a bench or the floor while one drives and one keeps the driver awake. Room is somewhat limited but Jess controls sleeping positions and the appropriate rotation so everyone can achieve maximum comfort. The sleepers jolt and bounce and seek equilibrium before finding rest. Sarah describes it as being rocked to sleep by the Rattler rollercoaster.

By morning we sleep in a gas station parking lot. Teeth brushing and face washing occur outside the bus and everyone takes part. A passerby asks if we are going to the Rainbow Gathering. The road takes us through self-proclaimed Indian country, now reduced to jewelry shops and convenient store knick-knacks. Painted billboards, one after another, announce the oncoming stores in a steady pulsing beat – 10 miles, 5 miles, 1 mile, exit now. At the Continental Divide we stop and rummage through one of these shops.

Because it is required, we proceed at a leisurely pace – the bus progresses according to its own pace so we oblige. Humphrey’s Peak, part of the San Francisco Mountains, emerges in the distance. Flagstaff sits nestled there. The mountain’s image grows until we are in its shadow. Parking at the Visitor’s Center, we scatter in and among Grand Canyon outfitters, bookstores, galleries. We are regular tourist types. We don’t mind.

Bleary-eyed and shorter on cash than when we arrived, dust covered mountains are seamlessly transmuted into dusty desert. Heat and sleeplessness help us decide to camp for the night at Lake Havasu, on the border of Arizona and California. Sarah cooks chili and battles swarms of gnats. Others set up tents and take showers. Bats lurch drunkenly from their roosts, emulating the movement of the gnats but with more intention in their crooked flight. A pair of narrowed eyes glows in the scrub as I walk past, the eyes’ possessor warily accustomed to my kind. With hot food and immobile beds, sleep comes quickly.

The dawn brings sun and the sun drives most of us to an early morning swim. The water of the Colorado is cold and clear, a marked distinction from every other desert element. We elect to move more quickly, hoping to avoid desert heat and reach sunny San Francisco. Through the Mojave heat. Through the pass and into Bakersfield. Up 99 through vineyards and farms. And we sing. We sing at the top of our lungs and wave at passing cars, like school kids hoping for attention. We sing into the night until the lights of the Bay area spread out before us, leading us swiftly over the Bay Bridge and into San Francisco.