ABSTRACT
The caravan of ill-assorted vehicles assembled at the baseball diamond in Golden Gate Park as a late-summer dusk promised a fine night for entering the unknown. Our ringleader, John Law, would drive the huge Ryder truck always rented for our larger absurdist escapades. It would be hours before we'd actually get into the vehicles and begin. As always, when a Cacophony Society Zone Trip called adventurers to leave San Francisco, the stragglers came late, and the last-minute preparations detained us further. The authors made short work of rubber eggs and polyethylene sandwiches, and got back on the road. Right outside of Reno, a tiny, rutted highway goes left and north from the freeway. They would be driving 100 miles on this road, through cattle country.
