I wiped sweat from my brow. “What do you want to do next?”
“I’m kinda hungry,” she said.
I nodded. After forty years, I know it’s code for must eat now! My brain kicked into overdrive.
“Let’s go to the skyway. Great views and a restaurant.” A two-bird, one-stone solution that brought a grin to my face. She nodded, and we made for the car—only now it wasn’t just a car, but a blast furnace with seatbelts.
I muttered about black cars and desert suns as I cracked the door. The steering wheel singed my palm, the seatbelt buckle could have branded cattle. I jabbed the key in, cranked the AC, and prayed the oven would turn habitable before we melted into the upholstery.
Android Auto finally blinked to life, its cool blue line promising salvation through the desert heat. I tapped “Skyway” and pulled onto the road, the AC straining against the furnace around us. We rolled out, feeling less like travelers on an adventure and more like potatoes waiting to be baked.
I figured the journey would end at the mid-century modern gas station turned visitor center. Instead, the cool blue line beckoned us higher into the mountains. One right turn and we began to climb, the blacktop snaking upward through scrub and rock.
Just as I was wondering if we were actually driving to the top, a sign ordered me to turn off air conditioning. I laughed out loud. Sure. And maybe roll down the windows to invite the desert in for tea? Not happening.
A few more bends in the road revealed another Turn Off Air Conditioning sign. This time my wife spotted it, gave me the look, and with a twist of the knob we were right back to mimicking baked potatoes—foil optional.
At last, the booth housing the parking attendant appeared, and I foolishly thought the journey was over. I paid the fee.
“Lot K,” was the only response. No directions. No fanfare. Just Lot K.
And so, you guessed it—the twice-baked potatoes lumbered higher into the mountains, wondering if we’d ever be served.
I won’t bore you by reciting the alphabet backwards, but K is smack in the middle. We pulled into the lot, jumped out, and joined the herd trudging toward the shuttle stop—like potatoes leaving the oven only to tumble straight into the fire, sweat and diesel fumes swirling together in the mountain air.
The shuttle ride was mercifully short, stopping once at Lot J for stragglers. I slipped inside and made a beeline for the water fountain while my wife bought tickets.
You’ve seen those old cartoons where someone eats something scorching hot, steam whistling off their head? That was me. I gulped water like a man possessed—half expecting my ears to rattle and smoke to curl out the top. By the time I was done, I felt less like a baked potato and more like just par-boiled.
Thirst quenched, I drifted through the gift shop, pretending to admire snow globes and overpriced water bottles until our boarding time was announced. Then they herded us like cattle into the boarding area, where we finally caught our first look up the mountain. Spoiler alert: it was gorgeous.
The twenty-minute ascent passed unnoticed. The glass gondola rotated slowly as it climbed, offering a full panorama with each turn—desert stretching behind us, mountains rising ahead. By the time we reached the top, we’d seen the world from every angle, and no one minded the wait.
We sauntered into the restaurant, soaking up the cool air as much as the view. Maybe it was the hunger, maybe the scenery, maybe the gallon of water I’d guzzled—but that burger was a revelation. Juicy, messy, and perfect. After hours of feeling like a baked potato, it tasted like triumph.
Then came the most amazing part of all—we stepped outside to find the temperature had dropped more than thirty degrees. For us, it was heaven: crisp air, cool breeze, like stepping into another world. For the locals, it was sheer torture. They shuffled past in coats and blankets, glaring at the crazy tourists grinning in short sleeves.
We lingered for two hours, soaking in the view and the cool breeze. Then came the journey in reverse, delivering us back to Lot K. With one last wistful glance up the mountain, we headed for our room.
But the real adventure—the Barbarian at the Gate—was still to come. Stay tuned for Part Three.