A Bad Night in Vegas

The CATmosphere

I was outraged. The unpleasant affair began the day before on the fifth of my planned seven-day camping trip in the Mojave National Preserve, a vast desert wilderness (over 1.5 million acres) that is near and dear to me. I had returned to my campsite after a long hike only to discover that my tent was gone.

I knew I was at the right place because my ice chest was where I had stashed it at the base of a juniper tree. It was like finding that your car was not where you left it. I almost automatically defaulted to “somebody stole my tent”. Then realized the absurdity of the thought: there was no one camping within miles of me. My car was the only one I had seen that day. A more reasonable explanation for my tent’s disappearance then occurred to me, the wind. It had been extremely windy since the night before: 20-30 mph, gusting to 40. So, I started scanning in the direction the wind was blowing. I eventually spotted my tent at a considerable distance, crunched up against a large bush, if not for which, who knows how far it would have tumbled. And that’s with the ballast of my sleeping bag and sleeping pad inside.

You can camp pretty much anywhere you want in the Mojave National Preserve at elevations ranging from about 900-8,000 feet. I was camping at about 4,500 feet, above where most cacti reside. But not all of them. The mesh parts of the tent were torn up during transit through prickly pear, cholla and other thorny plants. If there were an insurance claim I would have called the tent totaled. But it was too late to find other sleeping accommodations given my remoteness, so I re-staked the tent and added rocks to the inside for more ballast. I ate my dinner inside the car to get out of the wind and considered sleeping there. But unpleasant memories of recently doing so on my Boundary Waters trip were still too fresh, so I opted for the damaged tent.

I had planned to spend a few more days in the desert. Now I figured I had three choices if the wind continued the next day, and I had to assume that it would. Choice number one was to abort and do the long drive home the next day. Not very appealing. Choice number two was to gut it out for the remainder of the planned trip no matter how windy. Also not appealing. Choice number three was to find lodging for the next night and return if the winds abated. This was the least unappealing option, but it posed two separate problems. I figured that the nearest lodging was in Las Vegas, about 2.5 hours from where I was camped. I abhor Las Vegas, a suppurating wound in the desert, the MRSA of the Mojave. I needed to at least know in advance where in Las Vegas I was staying. (Certainly not on Sammy Davis Jr. Blvd.) That meant booking in advance. But I hadn’t had a signal on my cell phone since I called my mom for Mother’s Day, three days earlier, from my designated Mojave Preserve phone spot, which was a 45-minute drive, on dirt roads, from my campsite. Reception their ocellates between zero (SOS or that funny airplane symbol) and two bars on my phone, averaging one. My Mother’s Day call dropped three times.

I drove to the phone spot. When I arrived, reception was fluctuating between one and two bars. I got out of the car and walked to a high point, checking reception in every direction. I found one that was pretty consistently two bars, sufficient to access the internet through my phone. I first checked the weather forecast for the next day, which was more of the same wind-wise, plus higher temperatures. Next step Booking.com. I quickly glossed available properties that were nearest and as I suspected they were all in the Las Vegas metro area. I was pleased to find one that was not only inexpensive but highly rated. And it was outside Las Vegas city limits, in the large bedroom community called Henderson. I booked it and drove back to my campsite as the sun set.

Thankfully there were no bugs, as they could now easily access the inside of my tent. Spending another night in high wind was suffering enough. When the winds are vigorous the inside of a tent is quite loud but not constantly enough to qualify as white noise. I liken it to some of the old helicopters in which I was conveyed in my youth when fighting wildfire for the National Forest Service, the metal siding inside resonating with the rotor outside, as if not properly bolted down.

When I awoke the next morning, I quickly broke camp but was in no hurry to get to Las Vegas. I decided to visit Keystone Canyon in the eastern part of the National Preserve, which I figured would offer protection from the wind given its prevailing direction. It was also much closer to Las Vegas than my current campsite. Keystone Canyon had been, along with Caruthers Canyon on the other side of the New York Mountains, a favorite camping spot, before it was thoroughly torched by a wildfire in the summer of 2023. It was now a depressing place for me but still less depressing than Las Vegas, so I hiked around for hours, looking for signs of vegetative revival, which were few. Deserts recover slowly, if at all, from wildfires, which they have rarely experienced until the last two decades. The Joshua trees that formerly covered much of the area were completely wiped out, many still standing, some with their browned yucca leaves still attached.

So my mood wasn’t great when I departed for Las Vegas. As I neared Highway 15 the signal returned in full to my phone. I hadn’t really noticed the name of my hotel when I booked it the night before. When I retrieved it to enter it into google maps, the oddity of the hotel name struck me: CATmosphere. Must be a place that allowed cats, which was fine. But who travels with cats?

As I approached Las Vegas, the temperature was 100 F., which was unseasonably hot even for Las Vegas. And it was much hotter than where I had spent the previous six days (mid 70s during the day, low 40s at night). The temperature didn’t drop any as I entered Henderson. As I followed my google directions it became increasingly apparent that Henderson was not just a bedroom community, it was a bedroom community, squared. Almost entirely residential, the only businesses were small retail affairs, such as Starbucks, McDonald’s, grocery stores and gas stations etc. Nothing over two stories. It also became apparent that there were not many hotels. In fact, as I came close to my final destination, I hadn’t seen a single hotel, and even when google told me I had arrived at my destination, there was not a hotel in sight, just more residential blocks.

Perplexed, I decided to call Booking.com. I had a hell of a time finding a phone number for their customer service. Finally, I consulted Siri, and she came through. The guy on the other end was clueless. I gave him my reservation number and asked why the hotel wasn’t where it was supposed to be. He then asked which state I was in, at which point I got agitated and replied that if he had typed in my reservation number that information should be right in front of him, along with my name. The idiot then asked me to spell my name. I sarcastically did so, pausing after each letter. He put me on hold. When he finally got back to me, he gave me the address, which was the address where I was parked, still without evidence of hotel. I relayed this information none to cordially. He then put me on hold again. When he returned his news infuriated me. Turned out, I was indeed at the right address. I said, you mean, Booking.com booked me a B&B? He affirmed exactly that. Apparently, this was a new revenue stream for them, one I didn’t want any part of.

The proprietor had seen me parked in front. She—I will refer to her as she henceforth because I forgot her name the instant she told me—was out to greet me by the time I turned the engine off. She was a stout, fair-skinned blonde and buxom middle-aged woman in a summer dress that revealed more than I wanted to see. And she was not at all friendly. Her first words were “why didn’t you respond to my texts”. I explained that I couldn’t because I had no signal. That blew her mind. How could you not have a phone signal? As if that was inconceivable to her. I said I was camping in the Mojave National Preserve. She’d never heard of it, which didn’t surprise me. I gave a cursory description. She said but what about the coyotes? As if they were maneaters. And snakes. I said, yes there were coyotes and snakes, but I had no intention of furthering the conversation and moved toward the front door to get out of the heat.

She stopped me in my tracks. Before we went inside, she emphatically informed me that there was a strict protocol for entering the house. First, open the front courtyard gate, and this is very important, close it immediately behind you. Second, punch in the front door code, which was 9999. I said I think I can remember that; she insisted that I punch in the code nonetheless. But she stopped me before I opened the door. For here came the most crucial part: Open the door just enough to peek inside without letting one of the cats out. Make sure that all felines were a safe distance away, far enough to quickly enter before one of them dashed out.

When I cracked the door a nauseous wave of stale cigarette odor assaulted me. When we were both securely inside—the cats having shown absolutely no inclination to dash out into 100-degree heat---the odor had probably already permeated my clothing. And it was only slightly cooler inside than out. No AC. Who could possibly live in Las Vegas without AC? More relevantly, who could possibly rent a room in Las Vegas without AC and get listed by Booking.com? No wonder the cats were sprawled belly up and seemingly comatose. She introduced me to the three cats in the vicinity, a ritual for which none of the parties had any interest.

I was in a daze when I went to get my luggage out of the car. She was outside monitoring me as I opened the outside gate and admonished me for not closing it fast enough. I snapped that my hands were full which backed her off some. Next the 9999 code and slowly opening the door. But not slow enough for her. She proceeded to demonstrate the technique once again, which I had to repeat twice, once for my suitcase, once for my backpack, always under her watchful eye.

Once inside again I began to scan the premises while she instructed me on the use of the kitchen facilities. I mainly noticed the amount of space devoted to cat furniture and structures designed for them to climb. This was a true cathouse. Hence the name, CATmosphere. GAWD!! The floors were fully carpeted, including the staircase. The carpets themselves were carpeted with throw rugs. To maximize absorption of the cigarette smoke I suppose.

I had no intention of using the kitchen and kept my fingers crossed that I wouldn’t have to share a bathroom. When she showed me my room, I was relieved to find a private bathroom and shower. I was looking forward to a shower after six days without. When she showed me the shower, she said, kind of snidely, I’m sure you will want to use this. At which point I thought about my own appearance. When I caught a glimpse of it in the bathroom mirror and saw myself from her perspective, I had to give her credit for not turning me away at first sight.

She pointed to a good-sized tower fan on the chest adjacent to the foot of the bed and said to use it if I needed it. If I needed it? My sweat had already soaked much of the front of my t-shirt. That sucker was going on high the minute I closed the door behind her. But, it turned out, the closing of the door was not a given. As she exited, she suggested that I could keep the door open if I wanted to get to know the cats better. I like cats a lot and I’m sure these cats were very charming, but there was no way that door would remain open. I had to at least partly seal myself from the source of the cigarette smoke. Plus, my room was marginally cooler than the rest of the downstairs area. I had to preserve that temperature gradient as best I could.

Adjacent to the bathroom door She had posted a list of the six cats by name, with brief descriptions.

I had only seen three of the six and hadn’t bothered to look at them closely. But silly me, once I saw the sign I couldn’t help but retrospectively try to figure out which of the three was which. I didn’t tarry long though.

After I showered, I took to the bed, propped myself on some pillows, eagerly turned on my computer, and…did she give me the Wi-Fi password? Maybe I didn’t need one. Oh, but I did. And the password came at a price. I had to pay to use the F….ing Wi-Fi. I started to compose, in my head, my review for Booking.com, but soon fell asleep.

I awakened around midnight soaked in my own sweat, and the smell of cigarettes had increased. The fan was off. In my haste to feel the breeze, I hadn’t scrutinized the buttons thoroughly, and had hit the two-hour timer, after which it automatically turned off. The fan’s being off not only increased the apparent temperature, but the apparent smoke odor as well. I turned on every light in the damned room so I could push the right button: the one that would keep the fan on until I pushed the button to turn it off. Then I went to the bathroom sink and soaked a wash-cloth with cold water. I returned to the bed and placed the wash-cloth over my face, mouth included. If I suffocated, so be it.

I had set my phone alarm to 6:00 A.M., which, I figured, would spare me any further interactions with crazy proprietress if I made a stealthy exit. I woke spontaneously at 5:30 A.M., even better odds of avoidance. When I opened the door to my room, three very alert cats were staring at me. As I edged toward the house entrance with my backpack and suitcase, they followed me closely.