Blackjack and Bombs Away: 24 Hours In Wendover

The summer heat is rising once more. The only cool, midnight breeze comes from a window-mounted box fan, and your favorite out-of-his-element journalist is eager for another adventure: one that’ll test the might of man, the threshold of my mentality and the cavern of endurance. However, like such adventures, it’s one that I must take alone. It was the desert sands that were beckoning me to a distant land (two hours away) at the end of the world, enriched by debauchery and its violent history. So, I’ll go where the sirens sing, past the salt and straight on ‘til morning to find the micro-Vegas of Wendover and “get outside” for 24 hours.

Our expedition began at 7:30 on a Saturday morning, where I snoozed past my six set alarms. I frantically drove to the freeway exit of 7200 South, where the “fun bus” was waiting for my arrival. Utah Trailways’ luxury land yachts come stashed with prop plane seating and a built-in shitter with one of the loudest flushing mechanisms I’ve ever heard (for those early morning power squats). I naively expected a roomy travel, thinking no one’s deranged enough to wake up at this ungodly hour just to run the slots. Oh boy, once we hit our final pickup spot, our bus was cramped with burnouts and grandmas like packaged loin cuts.

We set off west, where the city asphalt soon molded to dirt and shrubbery, ultimately to a glimmering ocean of salt. The Bonneville Salt Flats became our tour guide, directing us farther away from the mainland. Rows of ancient telephone poles, half-crumbling and submerged in crystalline salt water, formed waves with the fun bus’ acceleration. I tried looking for landmarks: a sea serpent made from blown-out tires, crusted shrines of highway fatalities, the notorious tennis ball tree towering over as a halfway marker. We were nearly there!

About an hour later and 15 dollars short from a bus ride raffle to hammer in the “fun” factor, we officially arrived in the desert town. I hopped off to find the mediocre fun zones: the liminal space of the Wendover Nugget, the minimally-renovated Montego Bay, The Peppermill, Rainbow and Red Garter. These were your high-stake opportunities — the big breaks waiting for me at the card tables or slot machines — but I knew I would be taking my chances with those later on this trip.

First was a history lesson. I walked south about a mile from the main strip, passing broken glass and a pile of discarded hotel keys to the Historic Wendover Airfield. Along the bone-dry runway of gravel, the 75-year-old reign of the Historic Wendover Airfield has indulged in a rich history of dogfighting and aerial combat. Its sun-stroked hangars and boxy structures outlasted through World War II, being used as a training facility for the US Air Force bomber crews. Its grand hall is ornate with the artifacts of a bygone conflict: tattered Stars and Stripes, olive green uniforms, framed documents yellowing behind the glass, even a replica of the “Little Boy” nuke that was dropped on Hiroshima. Aside from the crackling floorboard I walked upon, the silence was the main attraction. No heroic interlude soundtrack looping, no sound effects of fighter jets and battle cries, just a quiet building reflecting how precise and calculated brave souls must be to take on the axis of evil in uncertain times. What outshines such darkness, however, is America’s love for movies, as I toured the gutted-out remnants of the Fairchild C-123 “Jailbird” from the film Con Air.

Hiking back to the strip and regretting my choice of navy blue Levi’s and a linen Acapulco button-up for desert attire, I was refreshed by the air-conditioned casino of Wendover Nugget. The atmospheric darkness stayed still among the chainsmoke and half-corroded neon lights. The quiet stillness felt loud, especially as the card dealers stood stiff as mannequins. Yet deep down, I knew I had a presence following me, stronger than any ethanol proof. Lady Luck was with me…

With a few watered-down rum and cokes running laps in my boiler, I sat at a blackjack table struggling to calculate simple addition and subtraction. For some god-awful reason, I was failing hard. Eight of clubs plus six of diamonds… over or under? It was like I was holding up any of these old heads. The whole casino was in slow motion, moving at the speed of curdling milk in the thick Nevada heat. At least the elderly dealer (bless her heart) worked with me with every hand, reminding me of my old grade school days of getting pulled out to class to practice my reading level… God, what a loser play. Every bust and millisecond to count cost me 10 dollars. Before I knew it, I was wandering away with a hundred bucks in the hole, yet somehow the table continued in its rerun pace without me. Just like the hotel itself with its quietness and vacancy, it was almost like that red leather chair with its stitching torn was always meant to be empty. I left to see what the other casinos had in store. 

Let me fill you in on a little traveler’s trip the next time you find yourself in Wendover: the entire strip of American adultery is deceivingly sparse. Sure, the town is within walking distance of every need and want, but between Point A and B are deep ditch inclines, sidewalks that end abruptly and that signature (possibly patent-pending) year-round heat. Maybe you could take a ride share? Uber and Lyft don’t operate outside the downtown limits. If you want to get anywhere, you’re trucking or you’re walking! So when I thought to myself, “Rainbow and Red Garter are just down the street,” I didn’t anticipate the caliber of what “down the street” truly meant. I moved like I was walking underwater, as chafing began swishing my thighs raw, and a soggy rectangle formed underneath my backpack. The sidewalk bent into drops, crossing the skillet-top asphalt. I staggered past a roached billboard slide showing up-and-comer comedians and hair metal tribute bands. It was at this point where I decided that if I was going to spend 12 more hours in this waste, I would need supplies. 

Wendover Will stood in his Marlboro Man attire, welcoming to the official end of line. Pass him, and you’ll be out venturing to whatever lies beyond the hills. However, Will was guiding my way to my first stop — Lee’s Discount Liquor. Among the Costco-level warehouse lay rows of booze, perfectly straight and categorized to its preferred spirit. I watched the tower shelves of glass and cardboard from inside a walk-in fridge, attempting to cool off my nuggets for a bit. After a deep freeze, I scoured up high proofs — a 12-pack of Grog, a liter of bottled-in-bond rye and a fistful of the mini 99% bottles of [insert artificial fruit flavoring here]. Next stop was for some mind-altering doses. Because Deep Roots Harvest was a mile in the opposite direction, I took my chance at a lone cement block gas station. In its spinning rock of boner pills and flavored vapes, it was a small, sweaty bag of kratom that was purchased, complete with a Bonneville Salt Flats patch. 

An hour later, I was in a daze at Red Garter. It was another darkly-lit backroom of slots and deserted bartops. Whatever light that may have had a temple-facturing glare was nearly blinding in this cave of “amusement.” However, if I wanted to make my hundred dollars back, I would have to venture toward the light, and what I found at the end was… Frankenstein? Far away from all signs of life and next to a dust-green slate for a pool table, the Frankenstein slot machine electrified the back corner in an eerie, toxic-waste glow. I put in a Jackson and bet it all in the first go. Shocking Ol’ Frank, the credits began to climb higher, surpassing 20 dollars, 40 dollars, 100 dollars! I was starting to wake up finally: 120, 150, 175 — we were about to hit the jackpot… until the screen froze and a buffering error message popped on screen.

It’s safe to say that I didn’t make it the full 24 hours. The minis and kratom were pushing me into hangover territory by the time my bus arrived at 8:30 p.m. (12 hours ain’t bad). Why did I come out here in the first place? To press my luck? To find some fun in my measly chunk of time I call life? Maybe embarking on this little side quest was not a source for meaning but an example of where life can take you. Humankind is made up of taking side quests, and sometimes there are the ones that matter. So as I rode back to SLC, trying not to make eye contact with the baldy next to me who was obviously looking at porn, tuning out the world, breathing easier. As for the bank account, I was 200 dollars richer.

Read more about Alton’s unusual adventures:
A Happily Gay Romp to Downtown SLC’s Gay Bars
Test of Taste: Food Challenges to Try and Stomach

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