"Are we there yet?"

Nevada smells like ass.
It gets better.
But Reno, Sparks, Fernley, Fallon, man there’s ass in the air.
“Dude, the water tastes like ass,” J-Zone said in Fallon.
(A note on Fallon: the town’s motto is “Oasis of Nevada;” I’ve been to an oasis once, and Fallon ain’t it. The motto should be, “Fallon, We got hit by the Ugly Stick. Twice.)
We’re in Fallon, truck laden with camping equipment and gear, to hook up with two teams from Sacramento to road trip into the desert. To soak in natural hot springs. To abuse our livers. To relax with friends.
“Where is this place?” The Warden asked.
I have no clue. In the desert. Take Highway 50 – “The Loneliest Road in America” – for 300 miles and take a right. Go 10 more miles and you’re there.
We were in the truck for nine hours, traveling at an average speed of 75 miles per hour (120 kilometers for our metric friends).
We were deep into Nevada.
Road trips with friends are so cool. I’d forgotten just how bad a car full of your friends can be. Tunes, coffee, Rock Star (triple strength; I asked the boys to not let me have another, as I started having visions), stories.
Men, together, are bad.
Very bad.
We travel down this impossibly long stretch of asphalt, and finally, the lead truck turned on his signal.
And in 10 miles down a dirt road (and a couple of Pabst Blue Ribbons) we’re at the ranch.
And the air is clear and cool and the sunset is beautiful. Stream rises from the springs.
And the air smells not of ass, but sage and dust and promise.