As I have mentioned before, twice each year I make the pilgrimage to the fourth largest county in the lower 48 to play with the Ruby Mountain Symphony. Not only does it give me an opportunity to knock the cobwebs off of my doublebass but also to visit Northeastern Nevada. And while April isn't always the best month to go traveling in the Great Basin, the Springtime is nonetheless a splendiferous (this is apparently a word, although if I find it comes from the Psych lexicon I'll have to edit this post) time to see this part of the State: new grasses are sprouting, their infancy adding lush, verdant accents to the rolling hillsides; new flowers are just beginning to emerge as slumbering branches stretch themselves awake after the long winter's hiatus; patches of snow yet crown the high country; the last lingering dampness of the past few months enhances the incense of sage...for a few examples.
And today was a beauteous day for travel. The remnants of our cool Spring storms of the past week were breathing their last of the desert air, yielding partly cloudy skies and that angelic, azure aura manifested by high (...er than normal) humidity. The clouds that remained behind the parent storm clung to the mountains like symbiotic parasites - while this partially obscured some of the more impressive mountain ranges, such as the Humboldt Range, it provided breathtaking embellishments of some of the lower chains, like the East Range or the Sonoras.
Going over Golconda Summit these small cumulus clouds spat a few, delicate rain drops onto the ground, desperate to relieve themselves of the precious little moisture left. It was as if they could sense the dire situation below after three years of severe drought and wept for the high desert; but these poor, desiccated clouds could manage little more than a single tear down their left cheek.
It appeared that Midas to the North and the Buena Vistas to the South were getting a little more much needed aqueous relief, but for me, on the Victory Highway (or what was before it was turned into I-80, thank you very much Dwight D. Eisenhower...ok, before that it was US 40, but...shut up!), it was clear sailing. Well, except for that lady from Maryland who wouldn't let me pass and toyed with me for 60 miles...sigh, but I digress.
I decided that, with the majesty of the snow-capped (yes, I went there) mountains, the low clouds, and the distortion from the humidity creating an almost surreal ambiance, it was time to put on some music that would lend itself to the day and meld with the experience: Bruckner's 4th symphony; the horn calls, the soaring viola solo...it all lent itself perfectly to the surroundings. When you listen to music for entertainment, or to keep yourself awake on a long drive, that's all well and good; but when you listen to great, poetic music you suddenly transcend your concept of reality and, in my experience, reach a higher level of being, including all five (main) senses in the experience (if you include the taste of that third can of Monster you're downing since, due to your work schedule, you had to wake up five hours earlier than your sleep cycle is used to) - I highly recommend you try it at least once. But I digress...again. Well, kinda.
Bruckner provided the soundtrack from about Green Saddle Ranchettes (we'll just say Golconda-ish) to near the Beowawe exit (yes, this means I was going at a fair clip); and as the first three movements had provided a perfect sonic "aura" up to the Eureka county line, the turbulent 4th movement began at the precise moment that one, larger cloud apparently became depressed and lost the will to live. The winds picked up, the sky grew quite dark, and...then the rains came.
Then the sleet came.
Then the...more sleet came.
And the trucks, my God, the trucks! Between the torrent from above and the deluge kicked up from the highway by the long-haulers my poor, tired windshield wipers could barely keep up. And all the while ol' Anton's music kept pace, between the somber and the agitated, mimicking every lingering moment approaching the grade to Emigrant Pass. And as the road began to climb the symphony reached it's triumphant coda, finally settling on the e-flat major tonic of the work...and the skies cleared.
Over the past couple of drought-stricken years I have noticed that the resilient grasses in this neck of the woods would still break out in full splendor despite the lean winters and the hills would appear succulent with the green of the forage plantstuffs. This year, however, it would seem that Boreas finally had his way as there was nice, full, green grass to be seen, but only in those little, steep draws, protected slightly more from the sun, where the snow can remain a bit longer than on the remaining slopes. On the sunny, south, facing slopes, despite some snow yet holding on to its tenuous existence, the grasses already look like tinder ready to erupt into flame by any means necessary.
Elko hasn't changed much in the years I have been coming here (except the old Mine Pro building coming into town apparently isn't owned by or called Mine Pro anymore, and the old Coffee Mug is now a Denny's, and the Taco Time is apparently closed with what I assume is good cause), but it still provides a welcome respite from the tedium (at best) of my daily life. The sleet caught up to me during lunch, but passed quickly thereafter (by now I was listening to Shostakovitch 12...diga dut dut dut dut dut dut dut diga dut dut dut dut dut dut dut). I played my gig (including the first movement of Dvořák 9, my favoritest music to play ever), went to the after party at the Northeastern Nevada Museum (where I procured an original copy of the 1911 Nevada state statutes) and now I'm wasting your time telling you about everything else that happened today.
Alas, no pictures yet, but tomorrow I'm going to...EUREKA!!! Who's ready to see the Roberts Mountains!?!?
