Weather: sunny & hot
I arose a little before eight, and having some time to spare that morning, decided to take advantage of the pool facilities where I was staying, not knowing when I might encounter a pool again. I was pleased to find that even this early in the morning, the water was not unduly cold.
Having got dressed, I set out in search of somewhere to obtain some breakfast, since none was served at the hotel, only coffee. I found a 7-11 a little way up the Boulder Highway, though on the other side, and I had the usual fun of waiting an age for the lights to change in my favour, if indeed they did at all, the roads around the city all being far too wide without a red light to stop the traffic.
(Not that one stops all traffic, given that vehicles may turn right on a red light if the way is clear. Some drivers seemed to take this to mean ``clear of vehicles'' and show little respect for the unfortunate pedestrians who might be attempting to cross at the time.)
I left around 10.40, taking the free shuttle back to the airport. I then had to find the Alamo desk, which proved less than entirely trivial as there wasn't one inside the airport; instead I had to find the Alamo shuttle bus outside the terminal which took me to their depot a couple of blocks beyond the airport perimeter.
Once inside the Alamo building, I found a long queue at the desk, and resigned myself to a long wait. Eventually it came to my turn to be served, and there followed the usual signings of countless bits of paperwork. It was only much later that I realised that one of them contained among the small, half-illegible print that I was agreeing to pay an additional eight dollars per day for their ``Personal Protection'' plan, whatever that might be (they had failed to give me any documentation pertaining to it whatsoever).
Formalities complete, I made my way out into the parking lot to find my car. This proved to be a large dark brown Oldsmobile Intrigue, somewhat larger than I expected for the requested ``2 door midsize'', with four doors and a 3.5 litre fuel injected V6 engine. The car was almost new, with a mere 5000 miles on the odometer, a mileage I would be increasing considerably.
After a few minutes of learning the controls, I decided it was time to leave. As by this time it was around 12.30, I had decided that rather than face the nearly 300 mile drive to the Grand Canyon that afternoon, I'd instead head at a more leisurely pace up into Utah towards Zion National Park, heading first for Lake Mead, the huge artificial lake formed by the construction of the Hoover Dam on the Colorado River.
Of course the first thing to do was to escape from Las Vegas. This proved less than entirely trivial, as I rapidly found myself on wide multi-lane roads, not entirely sure as to which turnings I needed to take, signing being somewhat inadequate. Having missed an intended turning, I found myself with little choice but to head onto the Strip, a rather unnerving experience for one who had not driven for some considerable time and suddenly found himself in a strange car. Thankfully traffic was relatively light and I had only to take it for about a mile before taking the right turn along Tropicana Avenue, to the north of the airport, then heading out of the city towards the southeast.
It was then a drive of about twenty miles to the entrance to Lake Mead National Recreation Area. I stopped to pay the $5.00 entrance fee and to collect some information from a helpful ranger before heading down to Las Vegas Bay, a marina at which I had been told I could get something to eat.
I found a bar on the floating pier at the marina. This looked less than entirely appealing from the inside, but also had some shaded outdoor seating, and I sat myself at one of the tables. Nearby some people were feeding some of the local wildlife: a large number of noisy ducks and a vast seething mass of fish, literally falling over each other to get at the food. Fortunately I had less of a struggle to eat my sandwich, having only to fend off a couple of flies and an inquisitive-looking bird casting a beady eye in my direction.
After lunch, I decided to move on, heading up a scenic road in the desert landscape of the north shore of the lake. I noticed as I drove that the ``low oil'' warning light on the dashboard was lit. I stopped briefly in a deserted lay-by to check the oil level and found it indeed to be quite low, but there was little I could do immediately, being miles from any town. The light subsequently disappeared, but I resolved to visit a garage at some point.
Close to the northernmost section of the lake at Overton Bay is the Valley of Fire, a place which had been recommended to me by my friend Reba, with whom I would later be staying in Washington. This was only a few miles out of my way and so I took the detour.
It rapidly became obvious that the name was most apt, thankfully not due to the presence of any of the wildfires that had been striking the West that summer but instead to the searing desert heat outside my air-conditioned luxury and the vivid red colours of the rocks. I stopped first at the Visitor Center for information and to pay the entrance fee, another five dollars.
I spent a little while looking around a small exhibition on the geology and history of the area, then headed back to the car to explore the area.
First I headed to the Petroglyph Trail, a short walk in the hills above the valley floor. Here a shortish walk led one past a series of petroglyphs, elaborate paintings on the rocks, probably made by the ancient Anasazi Indians who dominated the area around a thousand years ago. At the end of the trail was a small pool among the rocks, an accumulation of the rare rainwaters which was preserved through its shady location. This bears the name of the ``Mouse's Tank'', after the nickname of an outlawed Paiute Indian rebel who reputedly evaded capture by hiding in the valley during the late nineteenth century.
After a brief drive around some of the rock formations of the lower valley, I stopped at a short trail leading to a couple of petrified logs. A much larger collection may be found at Petrified Forest in eastern Arizona, a place of which I had read that the novelty soon wears off: ``after you've seen one petrified log, you've seen them all''. After inspecting at close quarters the fragmented remains of a couple of logs, I was inclined to agree.
With the sun getting low, it was now time to move on towards civilisation and somewhere to stay for the night. The first place I encountered was Overton, a few miles south of the interstate highway from Las Vegas up into Utah towards Salt Lake City. At the far end of town I found a Best Western motel, which at 52 dollars for the night I initially felt was a little on the expensive side, but as it turned out was about par for the course on the holiday. Nonetheless the room was very pleasant, the staff helpful and a continental breakfast was included.
I soon headed back out in search of some dinner. I had been recommended a diner named ``Sugars'', certainly infinitely preferable to the McDonalds opposite. I partook of their ``special'', a cheap but very satisfying meal of soup followed by roast turkey. Afterwards I returned to the motel and watched a little of the film Speed, about the best thing I could find among the multitude of available television channels, before retiring to bed at 22.30.