Nevada, Ruby Mountains, California and Yosemite

The Ruby Mountains are yet another undiscovered wilderness, and have been described as "the only thing worth seeing in Nevada, if only anyone knew about them". A series of spiky peaks, punctuated by beaver dams and containing a wholesale abscence of rubies (though they'd named them by the time they released their mistake), they provided another pit-stop on the long road to Frisco.

Hiking up the trail to a plateau that I'm not sure ever really existed, I came across a well made up lady with very clean blonde hair, bedecked in full camo and brandishing a pair of large binoculars and a very large bow. She looked dejected, apparently, despite the mountain goats, occasional doe and multiple beavers, she wanted a big buck to impale. Not entirely knowning what to make of this strange coupling of mascara and bloodshed, we pointed out that we were wearing brown and would be walking on the left side of the stream, then made a hasty retreat.

Heading downhill the following morning, I can concur with the nameless quotation at the beginning of the post. Nevada is a state of dust-devils, occasional downpours, jagged mountains, roadside brothels and military bases where America practises bombing itself. Of course, there is Vegas, and moreover, there is Reno.

Like a garish Blackpool of the desert, Reno rears up after the salt flats as a fluorescent mirage, promising stimulus of every kind after the monotony of the road. Pottering about after checking in to a dubious-looking motel, I stumbled into a pawn-shop, to be greeted with racks of guitars, DVDs, and a wall of guns from .2o to .50, and a row of eager looking hispanic gangbangers admiring the array and making notes of the prices. Having determined that we would only buy a gun if we won loads on the slot machines, we took off to the Grand Sierra Hotel and Casino, for a grand buffet indeed, including very unlocal crabs and a disappointing steak. Then, to the bright lights and clockless interiors of the area's second most famous town.

Having won a handful of cuddly toys and lost several dollars, I wondered whether I could reinvest my winnings at a bar. The only one with any people inside, due to the fact that it was Wednesday, and Burning Man was soon, was a grubby rock bar, where to my disappointment they did not take cuddly toys as payment. They did serve one dollar pints however, and the locals were so amused by the arrival of foreigners that multiple free drinks and chasers were forced our way. Reno really is a bit horrible, but it works for it, to paraphrase the description given of me by a very attractive girl in a sailor's hat. I think I would have to agree.

Following the mild debauchery of Reno we headed away from the fallen of civilisation, back into the wilderness and to Yosemite and Tahoe. Several highways, winding mountain roads and impressive vistas later, we arrived in Yosemite, to find half of it on fire, the rest filled with smoke. While it made for some very nice sunsets, it meant that we could not access the valley, and all of the most attractive scenery. We made a sweeping tour of the smoke-filled sequoia groves and left, but not before being warned by a patrolling man in camp that Sasquatch would come through our camp tonight, like every night. This was made funnier by the fact that the gentleman looked like Sasquatch himself. It was only later, when a bear ran about the camp, that we realised that the man was a ranger, and that Sasquatch was the bear's name. Apparently, this bear thing was not a ruse after all.

Black Hills, badass cowboys, big boring heads and Bison.

There is a transition from plains to mountain foothills in South Dakota. The transition takes place in the Black Hills, dark, pine-topped ridges in the eastern part of the state, home to Custer State Park and its bison herd, Mount Rushmore, and the Crazy Horse memorial. The effect of the transition is all the more spectacular if it occurred while you were sleeping off three steaks and some whiskey.

Custer State Park is a strange place, where shuffling bison move amongst herds of Harley Davidsons, and bighorn sheep amble up sheer slopes as groups of camera-wielding visitors strain and scramble to snap them before they disappear into the trees.

Descending briefly from the hills, the road to Wyoming takes you through Deadwood, a city of immense wild west notoriety that manages to handle the jobs of tourist trap and genuine National Historical Landmark with equal success. Housing the graves of Wild Bill Hickok and Calamity Jane, along with some gambling dens and bars, the town looks like great fun, though we only passed through. Soon after, we passed through Belle Fourche, at the East-West centre of the country. It doesn't look like great fun. It looks very boring. But again, we only passed through.

Strangely, in this landscape are found two of the most interesting single bits of stuff in the country. Mount Rushmore is the image for South Dakota's motto, "Great Faces, Great Places". Well, that and the Crazy Horse Memorial, which is bigger, more expensive, perhaps a bit more impressive, and will take even longer to not be ready. Both though, once seen, are very hard to do anything with, so you end up looking, mumbling, then leaving, perhaps having spent too much on an unnecessary drink or an Indian dreamcatcher.

Now in Wyoming for a spell, the radio choices are limited to classical music, classic rock, or religious rock, while your chances of seeing a non-white are similarly limited, especially if you remain in the towns that revel in the fact that their signs have elevations higher than their population.

You can always go to Gillette, "America's Energy Capital", home to mile-long coal trains, numerous cash for guns pawn stores, and one Chinese restaurant. Or just stay out of towns, and admire the scenery as it fluctuates between sagebrush, methane pumps, and pronghorns. You are best off tuning in to 91.1, forgetting about music or scenery, and getting stuck in to some wholesome religious teaching, such as about "the enemy", pornography, and learn to "defend yourself, your families, and your home from this dangerous animal", "more dangerous than a killer whale". It's no joke, you're far more likely to encounter pornography out here than a killer whale, (it won't get through the computer screen) so it pays to be prepared.

Anyway, cowboys. I spent last night in Cody, Wyoming, home to the famous 7 days a week rodeo. It is stirring stuff indeed, from the Star Spangled Banner sung at the beginning (while two children with flags gallop around the floor), to the three dollar beers and the resulting puns on riding, bellowed from the crowd when the time comes for the ladies' time trials. I volunteered to get amongst the sawdust for the clown's act, and met some actual cowboys with lassoes and everything, before being levitated via some visual trickery by the only clown that has ever sounded as ridiculous as he looked, a deep, gravelly Malboro man with green hair and purple eyes. The bucking broncos and steers are impressive enough, especially when they let off so much steam in the release cage that the rider thinks twice and gets back off again, but the real credit has to go to the two handlers, who ride around the ring, corralling the soon-riderless animals and keeping the show on time, all the while threatening the clown with a lassoing himself.

The rodeo did finish pretty quickly, although, as the saying goes, time flies when you're having rum. Or whisky in this case. The next day we were in Montana, bear country, as the scratch marks around our campsite attested. That and the massive pawprint in the mud. Apparently the best, or rather only, way to outrun a bear is to run across a slope. Easier said than done. After an evening of yeehaws, aww shucks and ahs and oohs, followed by a drinking competition with a man with a voice so husky that only a retard would challenge him or his ex-con friend to a tipple, I doubt I could run across a flat surface. Maybe the zigzags would confuse a bear. Next time, might be better off trying to outrun a beer, as my German travelling companions insist on calling the ursine locals round here. Beers can't run as fast as me, surely.