The Snows Of Disbelief The Fiction Of Our Times

My father was driving on the highway through a construction zone. Traffic was going relatively slowly, and so he was following the car in front of him rather closely. I happened to be on the phone with my mother, who was in the passenger seat, and she was warning him to slow down. Before I knew it, I was hearing the sound of my parents getting into a fender bender - they had hit their brakes in time to avoid the suddenly-stopped car in front of them. However, the driver behind them had not been so careful. He struck my parents' vehicle from behind, thereby pushing them into the stopped vehicle in front of them. A three-car pile-up!

Downstairs in the lobby my spirits picked up a little. This hotel was so nicely decorated--old western antiques everywhere. I was getting that "Nevada" feeling. It's a wonderful feeling that you don't really get in Las Vegas. These small towns, and even Reno, have a wonderful flavor all their own. You feel a part of their culture and a part of their history. It was a nice feeling of belonging. I was glad we were here. It felt safe and familiar.




Goldfield had zero accommodations which meant we'd have to retrace our journey from Tonopah. There was a Ramada there on this side of town. Still, it was 26 miles. Again. It was the longest 26 miles of the trip--in the wrong direction. Disheartened and beat we drove silently to Tonopah. I watched the odometer countdown the miles. We were almost there.

The 17th is an uneventful par three, with no blood drawn. The final hole is a great closer. It's a dogleg right that again requires a tee ball that stays short of a creek about 250 yards out. Anything right ends up in the trees, and trying to hit it long and straight off the tee ends up over the fairway and with a big tree blocking your approach in. After splitting the fairway, I found myself 160 yards away and in need of some last-minute heroics. I striped an eight-iron that was tracking all the way - until it bombed over the flag and ended 40-feet long. Calling my putt aggressive is one way to put it - I blew past the hole and onto the fringe. Not my finest close, with four putts securing yet another inferior showing relative to Hansard.

The girls agreed wholeheartedly. Fear was now our companion. We maneuvered the car around on the highway--there were no other cars or lights anywhere in the vicinity. Our only relief on our way back was the dark humor we enjoyed about the sinister laughing of the gas station attendant carving another hash mark into the backroom once we'd left.

I sat and waited. It was all I could do. sổ tay đẹp hcm covered the car and I sat with Ernest Hemingway's bed on the side of a road. That weekend the worst blizzard in twenty years hit the Midwest. Fifteen people died and there was a hundred traffic pile up on the expressway. Indiana was declared a disaster area and Chicago nearly had to shut down. It took me two days to get home.

The Crash is a shore wreck dive, that actually has nothing to do with a plane crash. There's a small plane at this reef that actually feel in the water when the USS Erie was hit by a torpedo. The plane itself is no longer in great shape, and some say isn't too recognizable, but the surrounding reef is impressive. Expect to see lots of coral heads in this area and to dive between 30 and 100 feet.