Well, although we spent Tuesday night in the parking lot at Squaw, the weather in the morning did not look promising, so we decided to pack it up and head to Reno for the day. Brant's parents had hooked up with us at Squaw and had a few days to help us kick off the Road Trip, so we caravaned over to the Biggest Little City on Earth. The weather on that side of state line was gorgeous...crispy cold and clear. We just took the day easy, spent some time at REI and Sierra Trading Post and did a little work while the daylight held. Since the sun was out we let the skateboards come out to play for a bit.
When night fell, we headed for the bright lights and the big jackpot: one dollar craps tables at Cal Neva. After a few wrong turns, we maneuvered the rig into a few parking spaces and headed into the dense jungle of the casino.
The Rig in Reno
We'll be testing this theory whenever the opportunity comes up, but it seems to us that there is no variable between the smell of any given casino, regardless of whether you are in Lost Wages (aka Las Vegas) or some chintsy, 400-year-old casino in the middle of nowhere or the Cal Neva in Reno. It's a blend of tobacco-filtered air that seems too thick to make it down your pipes, too recycled to have any oxygen of value left in it, and nearly too dense to see through. And of course the casinos are always extra generous in allowing that wonderful smell to adhere to all matters of clothing, hair, baggage and pores long after Elvis has left the building.
If in our travels we come across a casino which has a smell all it's own, we'll be sure to report it to the authorities.
Regardless, brave adventurers (aka pathetic gamblers) that we are, we trudged ahead. Palms smacking against the fingerprint-smudge double glass doors that mark the entrance to the sensual overload (and I mean that in a yucky way), we crossed the threshold and immediately proceeded to the gold mine: The Craps Table.
Yes, that oasis in the sea of slots. The spot that breeds commeraderie among gamblers, as opposed to the more common display of complete contempt, most often excercised by legs, ash trays and large buttocks spread across multiple slot machines, declaring all at once posession, pathology, and potential poverty. The table where smiles and shouts are the norm, and most of the folks gathered round the rails are sure that they have the winning strategy. They have found the key to this game. It's amazing, with so many experts, that casinos make any money at all.
So we joined the throng, cheered our share of shooters, lost our money and emerged into the fresh air again. At which point we were quite obviously winners after all.
The plan was to hit Mt. Rose the next morning—we could see this beautiful mountain in the distance, beckoning to us with the naked runs striping the hillside. In need of fuel and unsure what the Mt. Rose policy for overnight camping was, we headed a few pokes west back to Boomtown, and spent the night among the growl of semis and the silence of a light snowfall.
We woke up with first light, fueled up, topped off the propane tanks, and headed over to the dump. You remember the drill. This time in the snow, and this time at a beautiful facility, as opposed to Mama Rocklin's Trailer Park of Love. With the appropriate tanks empty and the appropriate tanks full, we headed out 395 south to Mt. Rose.
Dumpin' the Poopie
