The town of Baker sits like a wart on the side of the I-15, somewhere in the desolation between Los Angeles and Las Vegas. A bizarre bastion of fast-food consumerism and price-gouged gasoline, it exists only as a way station for those optimistically heading to the City of Sin, or disillusioned, returning to the City of Angles.
Most years, it's my one and only stop, a quick tank top-off before the final push. This year, it's my third. One of the stops was a nap. I am not well.
