Tourist Traps

Rachel, being the nearest town to the mysterious Area 51, has made sure to capitalize on its location. The Little Aleinn is otherworldy, and intentionally so. Tourists come from all over the planet (and arguably beyond) to visit the motel/gift shop/bar and revel in their own unique alien encounter.

Despite being located in the middle of the Nevada Desert, Rachel does a commendable job of bringing back repeat customers. At the bar I meet a couple from Connecticut that make a point to visit Rachel whenever possible.

Walter and Lizzie are not your average tourists. Walter is tall (maybe 6'4), wears camouflage pants, and looks suspiciously like Benicio Del Toro. Lizzie is short (maybe 5'4), wears denim shorts and sunglasses, and bears no resemblance to anyone in the cast of Snatch. Walter is an electrician and Lizzie a bus driver, and they both frequent their local yacht club, which they assure me does not possess the affectations one immediately associates with your typical yacht club.

I will never run into Walter and Lizzie at Disneyland. Their opinion of a good time is driving through the desert, searching for the type of thrill you can't get in Anaheim. Walter's most recent passion is hunting down crashed jets. There are plenty of locations in the area where high tech experimental aircrafts have met their demise. Walter, a man filled with more information on jets than one could possibly imagine, has seen some amazing views by pursuing crash sites.

This sounds like a potentially interesting venture, so when the couple offers to bring me along for their latest trip, I jump at the opportunity. Our first destination is the closed tungsten mine that Rachel was founded upon. Walter has heard about a site where a plane has crashed nearby the mine, so we head down the dirt road that circles the area.

The mine is surrounded by barbed wire and no trespassing signs and, given my fundamental lack of knowledge on tungsten, I decide not to press my luck by exploring further. I turn my attention to scanning the sides of the road for shiny metallic objects.

"Sometimes they are hard to see. You could easily drive right by the crash if you're not looking," Walter warns. "Scavengers tend to pick the sites clean to sell the jet parts on ebay."

Unfortunately, the only shiny object we see is the remains of a tent, not a jet. As we head past the mine and closer to the main road (if you can call it that) I turn my attention to the thinnest cow I have ever seen. The thing is so lean it looks like it works out, but judging by the overwhelming amount of insects circling it, that might not be a good trait in a bovine.

Before I can contemplate the intricacies of heifer health, I am startled by a loud popping noise and a sudden jolt of the car. The desert is not a great place to blow a tire.

"Whoohoo! Yes! That's what I'm talking about!"

Walter throws his hands up in the air, laughs aloud, and exuberantly hops out of the car.

Maybe I should quit jumping into the cars of strangers.

Lizzie looks similarly concerned.

"Did we just blow a tire?" she asks under her breath.

Walter laughs again.

"No. That was it. A sonic boom."

I look up to see a jet in the distance. It turns out many of the jets in the area are capable of breaking the sound barrier, resulting in loud thunder-like eruptions of sound.

“That was nothing. When they get real close the sonic booms can blow you away.”

I am very excited about the sonic boom, not only because it is a new experience, but also because it explains Walter’s reaction and I am no longer worried about the car’s trunk space.

Our next destination is the front gate of Area 51. To get there, we pass what I’m told is the world’s most photographed and possibly most famous mailbox. It is owned by a nearby rancher and is noted as the spot of numerous UFO sightings. To many, it is a symbol of wonder and excitement, a gateway to another existence.

To me, it is a mailbox.

After eight miles of Joshua trees, we come upon the entrance to Area 51 (incidentally the site of top secret military activity). At the entrance is a privately contracted security vehicle and a sign warning against photography. The sign looks like this:


We wait by the entrance for a couple minutes, then turn around. I later relish this decision when I read the consequences of passing the sign.

+ Your vehicle is impounded.

+ You are taken to the nearest jail (a two hour drive ) and fined several hundred dollars.

+ Security is lawfully authorized to shoot.

Instead, we decide to head to beautiful Coyote Summit, hike to the top, and watch the Red-Flag jets fly by. This experience includes picturesque views, state of the art jets, and very little chance of getting shot.

Now that’s what I call a good idea.