By Chris Willett
Hitting the road, having a damn good time, learning about myself, others, and this wild mystery called life. I love traveling—really love it. Doesn’t matter if I’m walking, flying, sailing, riding the rails, or in the back of someone’s pickup—I just want to be anywhere but here. For me, the joy is in the movement, not the method.
Most of my travel comes in the form of road trips. I just wrapped up a fresh one and figured I’d share some of the experiences, and maybe a few lessons, that popped up along the way. Yeah, I know—there are a million articles on how to improve yourself. This might be one more, but I’m coming at it sideways. No ten-step program. My version is: have a hell of a good time and see what unfolds. That’s basically how this trip went.
There was one goal: to see Robert Cray live in Las Vegas on a Saturday night. That’s what kicked off this whole adventure. Everything else? It could just flow.
The trip started in Modesto, California—home of my high school buddy James, who’s been causing trouble with me since the 70s. Man, the stuff we’ve done. One of my favorite memories is us arguing like crazy during “Jaws” at a drive-in while our other friend Ken kept begging us to shut the hell up.
We rolled out in my fire-engine red 2019 Ford F150 4×4, with a wedge GFC camper on the back. Headed south, pointing toward the desert. Death Valley first, then Vegas. The truck was stocked with enough provisions to camp just about anywhere. Google Maps said the drive would be 7-8 hours. Personally, I don’t love going more than 5 or 6, but hey—it’s a road trip.
Now, I’m not easy to label, but “vagabond,” “nomad,” “gypsy,” or “desert rat” all catch pieces of me. I’ve spent a lot of time wandering around the deserts of California, Nevada, and Arizona. This time, we aimed for Tecopa, CA, where there’s a little place called Death Valley Hot Springs—used to be Delight Hot Springs. As we rolled in, rain was pouring down. I popped open the awning on my camper, and we got to enjoy a desert rainstorm. Beautiful. I soaked that night and again the next morning. After coffee and some grub, we hit the road to explore Death Valley.
At the Furnace Creek Visitor Center, we got the scoop on The Racetrack—where rocks mysteriously slide across the ground, leaving trails. It’s been on my bucket list for years. The road out there is a 26-mile washboard with a top speed of 10–15 mph, and if you break down? A tow will run you over $3,000. They recommended we rent a Jeep for $350 and let the rental company worry about rescues. Smart. We decided to visit The Racetrack on the return leg.
That night, we stayed in a glamping tent on another part of the park. On the way there, we caught a private airshow—four military jets doing loops and smoking up the sky. “Is this for us?” I joked. “We must be someone important.”
After a solid meal, we hit the cots. It was windy—like 25+ mph howling-all-night windy. You could hear it rolling in from a distance, getting louder and louder until it slammed into the tent, rattling everything, then faded away… only to come back just as I was about to fall asleep. I don’t think I slept, but honestly, there was something kind of magical about it.
Next morning, eggs and sausage in our bellies, we headed toward Vegas. Crossed the Nevada line and hit a gas station where it was $3.09 a gallon—felt like I was robbing the place after California prices. There was a flea market going on, and I walked away with a 100-foot extension cord for ten bucks. I’ve got a weakness for thrift stores, yard sales, flea markets—bad addiction, trying to quit, but not quite there yet.
We hit Vegas around three. Found a decent hotel for $80 a night—my kind of price. First floor, easy unloading, had a pool and hot tub I never used. James went to dinner with his daughter while I laid low. Always good to get some solo time when you’re traveling with someone.
Saturday came, and before the Robert Cray show that night, we checked out the Arte Museum of Las Vegas. Immersive art everywhere—mind-blowing stuff. My only regret? I wasn’t stoned. Would’ve made it even more surreal. Not that it needed it.
Around 7 PM, we Ubered to the Venetian. Getting lost in those massive casinos is half the experience. I asked a guard where Robert Cray was playing. He laughed—said Cray was in the Summit Showroom, Chicago was in the Venetian Theatre, and The Eagles were playing at the Sphere. Three legends in one square mile. Unreal.
Cray’s show was in an old-school venue, probably held 500–1,000 people. Sound was tight, the view was great, and the band killed it. Most of the crowd were old-timers like me, with a few younger folks peppered in.
After the show, we went back to the hotel and cracked open some real moonshine James’s daughter brought—she sometimes works out in the boonies, and I guess they still make the good stuff out there. I’m not a gambler, and I didn’t lose a dime on this trip. Best gambling memory I’ve got is playing craps with some high school buddies—laughing, shouting, and actually winning money. Of course, I’ve given it all back since.
Sunday night, we stayed at a different hotel on the way back toward Death Valley. Had dinner at the restaurant—Indian curry and rice. Delicious. That’s one thing I love about road trips: the unexpected gems.
The next morning, we picked up the Jeep and tackled the 26-mile dirt road to The Racetrack. Bumpy as hell, maxed out at 15 mph. But when we got there? Not a soul around. We had the place to ourselves. The silence, the solitude—it hit me deep. I spent time with those rocks. Talked to them. (Yeah, I know how that sounds.) There was a moment where I felt this overwhelming gratitude for being alive. Like I knew I’d miss this world when it’s my time to go. I didn’t want to leave. I want to go back and spend a night there someday. Just be in that stillness again.
On the way back, we stopped at Ubehebe Crater—massive and stunning. I’d been to Death Valley before but never seen this spot. So many hikes, so little time. That’s the thing about the desert—people think it’s empty, but to me it’s endless.
That night, we camped near the Furnace Creek Visitor Center. Being a senior gets you half-price campsites. Gotta love some perks of aging.
Next day, we made the long haul back to Modesto. Books on tape, podcasts, jokes, naps, and just soaking in the scenery. We traded off driving and sleeping. Just bliss.
Already dreaming of the next trip. No plan, no pressure—just roll and see where it goes.
Keep on truckin’, my friends.
I also made a slideshow video about the trip. It’s about six minutes long. If you care to watch click here.
It’s beat poetry. Love it.