Photo Safari: 4,360
Miles in Five Days by Troy Paiva
(continued
from page
4)
Troy
Paiva
is a commercial artist
living in the San Francisco Bay Area. For his
entire adult life he has been an abandonment
explorer and back-roads wanderer, especially
at night. Sneaking around in junkyards and dead
roadside towns in the middle of the night, he
was doing urban exploration years before the
term even existed. Troy is the author of the
critically-acclaimed Lost
America which features over 145 color
and black-and-white photographs. On April 27th,
2007, Troy launched a new version of his Lost
America Web site with hundreds of evocative
photos from around the west.
|
|
Day Five
- A Third Wind
I do a lot of shooting on day
four. Combined with the late start it makes for a short
driving day, only 489 miles. I arc onto I-20 under maximum
acceleration, heading west. Texas freeways have fun onramps.
A quick left-right like a road-racing chicane. You can cut
the second apex late and get a strong launch onto the highway,
releasing your inner-Unser.
It's time to start thinking about
working my way back home. Only two days left before responsibility
and real life call. I slip into sleepy Van Horn at about
10 a.m. to get an oil change. The Texaco in the center of
town seems open for repair work so I pull into the lube
bay. The Mexican mechanic looks happy to see me, his rotten
green grin clashing with his oil-stained red and white striped
company shirt. He doesn't even mind the burns as the hot
oil spills across his fingers. The service happens deliberately,
as does everything in this part of the country. It's just
too damn hot to be anything except slow and easy-going.
The mechanics laugh easily and sing "Ring of Fire"
under my car's dusty, battered chassis.
Grab a quick lunch at an International
Airport of Pancakes in El Paso -- five different kinds of
syrup on the table and none of them are maple. I've obviously
slipped into another dimension. Everything you touch in
the place is sticky. Loaded up on a greasy brick of road-food,
I unglue myself from the vinyl booth, ready for the long
run.
The stretch of I-10 between El
Paso and Tucson has a tourist shop at nearly every exit.
I decide to stop at one and shake out the kinks. The store
is filled with insanely tacky tourist crap and I get the
stink-eye from the bovine "management trainee"
Tammy Faye-Baker look-alike. I must resemble a wild animal
by now: a four-day beard, dusty and stained shorts and T,
barefoot in 99-cent flip-flops, red-rimmed eyes, and stiff
and matted hair sticking out in every direction, but frankly,
I'm feeling pretty good, getting my second wind. Lordsburg,
New Mexico wins for best billboard: "Lordsburg, halfway
between El Paso and Tucson!" as if it that was some
sort of distinction. A classic case of "Chamber of
Commerce" malpractice, the town manages to live up
to this billing… and not much else.
It's as quiet and desolate a road-town
as you'll ever see. I sprawl on the highway in the center
of town to photograph the abandoned Border Cowboy Truckstop,
laying across the double-yellow line, chin on the ground
to get the lowest possible angle. No need to hurry, no cars
are visible as far as the eye can see.
 |
|
 |
|
Trotting
Park in Phoenix, Arizona |
|
 |
|
 |
|
My next stop for gas and chow
comes several hours later on the west side of Phoenix. Almost
300 miles and my feet never touch the ground. The frantic
buzz of weekday afternoon Phoenix freeways taxes my threadbare
nerves. Normally, housewives in giant SUVs, tailgating at
85 while jabbering on cell phones are just irritating. In
my condition, they are profoundly disturbing. The explosive
growth of Phoenix is overwhelming. Thousands of acres of
cheaply made new housing radiate from the city center in
waves. The sprawl has even mushroomed out to the old abandoned
Googie-style Phoenix Trotting Park. Ten years ago it was
seven miles from the nearest subdivision. This stylish and
bizarre structure, looking like it was cribbed from a Venusian
blueprint, will soon see the wrecking ball.
Most of Arizona is under a heavy
layer of clouds as I hum west throughout the day, by the
time I get to Phoenix (than-kew Glenn Campbell), I can finally
see the edge of the clouds. Once the sun slips below them
it occurs to me there will be a beautiful sunset, the first
of the trip. I immediately cut short my elegant in-car dinner
at In-N-Out Burger and haul ass 30 miles for Salome where
I remember seeing the perfect abandoned motel. I get there
with minutes to spare and set up the tripod. Pretty good
sunset, but the stop is what I really need. I'm buzzing
by this time, having a hard time getting my land-legs. Exhausted
and twitchy, eyes on fire, I shoot the sunset as the car
fills up with moths.
|
|
|
|
Drive-in
movie theater in Parker, Arizona |
|
|
|
|
|
As the sunset ends and the sky
turns from mellow purple to indigo, I try to focus my addled
brain on my next destination. I remember the old drive-in
screen in Parker, just 50 miles away, but once I get there
and shoot it, then what? The thought, "San Francisco
is only 600 miles from here, give'r take, I could be home
by dawn" slowly rolls around in my head, gaining some
momentum. I'm getting my third wind.
Once I drop towards the Colorado
River, the winds really pick up, like turning on a switch.
Thick waves of dust stream over the road, and the car dances
and twitches in the gusty headwinds. As I cross some dry
rivers, the blowing dust cuts visibility to zero, and the
car is battered by branches and tumbleweeds. Many drivers
have parked to wait it out, but I pound on. The screen in
Parker is still standing, but it's a bit more unraveled
than the last time I was down this way. With these winds,
I'm not surprised. I set the tripods up in the moonshadow
of the screen and lock open my lenses. The tumbleweeds skitter
and bounce by me during the time-exposures. I'm being jabbed
in the shins as I crouch to look through the lens, still
picking out Endee's thorns thousands of miles later. It
isn't long before I-40's concrete ribbon once again streams
beneath me, heading west this time, into a powerful sandstorm.
|
|
|
|
Vintage
motel in Salome, Arizona |
|
|
|
|
|
I get off at an exit near the
Providence Mountains to take a leak. I have to stand behind
a "Wrong Way" sign so as not to get pee all over
myself in the swirling wind. Even the moths that have been
riding along with me since Salome don't want to get out
of the car. One moth clung to the window just over my shoulder,
basking in the full moon glow for 3 hours as I steamed west
into the teeth of the storm. By midnight, most of the truckers
have called it a night. Every exit ramp is lined with idling
semis, running lights aglow, waiting out the storm.
At 1:11 a.m. I have finally had enough. Since leaving Penwell
yesterday morning at 6, I've driven 1,144 miles. The sandstorm
has extinguished my third wind. I sleep for a few hours
at my favorite secret camping spot near some abandoned trailers
between Barstow and Mojave. The engine ticks as it cools
and the car rocks in the wind. My body vibrates with phantom
road sensations for hours before I can sleep.
Day
Six - A Lifetime in 126 Hours>
