Road trips: the great, trusty pastime of the poor and the restless. Me, I’ve journeyed across this land more times than I can count. Before I was even old enough to drive, I traversed state after state with the aid of the cheap, but terrifying Greyhound, and now I can do it for realsies. For those of us in the States, few experiences compare to the mind-boggling variety of beef jerky, fireworks, truck-stop stimulants, and the rest of the endearing roadside oddities one encounters while driving cross-country.

For all these reasons and more, when we were invited to perform at the Dark Arts festival in Salt Lake City, this was the obvious way to get there. Of course, when you have seven hundred miles to go, have to be back in LA two days later, and find yourself departing at eight in the evening, the game is changed, son. Before you cringe in disgust when I tell you I slept a total of 10 hours in the 72-hour period this adventure took, consider this: Clint and Paris slept even less, and none of the aforementioned stimulants were even involved. We’re just hard like that. In spite of, or maybe because of, the delirium that set on early in the trip, I managed to document our trip in great detail

It’s hard to choose my favorite moment of this breakneck adventure. Was is the friendly Greek at the cafe in Barstow who was trying to help me get “the best shots”? Or, perhaps, the way that hate-filled Subway employee changed her tune when Clint started break-dancing in the sandwich line, then told her I was an “important reporter”? In all reality, while I know that the surprise jacuzzi in the middle of our hotel room is rivaled in glory only by the monumental fireworks warehouse store which, sadly, wouldn’t let me take any photos inside, the most memorable element remains the archetypal open stretch of highway and sky. Does that make me a romantic or a cheeseball? Both?

Words and photos by Zoetica Ebb