Meh. That title’s a bit macabre for a play on words, in regards to the timbre of our Road column and its frequent homages to passed on fellow road warriors. Yet I’m fair sure the decedents wouldn’t mind a little lighthearted banter about their demises having occurred on the way to and from Sin City, America’s Playground, Glitter Gulch itself. Death’s a capricious thing, but as we’ve said before, maybe it doesn’t need to be, not if we want to ultimately overcome its stigma and inherent ability to instill paralyzing fear in virtually all humans. Right? Right. Onward and upward.
Highway 15 is very likely the most frequented road all Southern Californians share in common when it comes to vehicular travel, other than California’s main byways like the 101 and the 5. Everybody in California goes to Vegas, for something or another, families and their children, corporate retreat attendees and convention goers, poker players and slot junkies and craps aficionados, high end baccarat elites and low end blackjack slugs, Lake Mead boaters and Hoover Dam tourists.
The 15 is a saturated road when it comes to emotional imprinting upon the earth. I can feel it plain as day every time I cross it, and I’ve crossed it a lot these last two years in particular, as opposed to the 20 year exile from Vegas I incurred before that. Suffice it to say, I had an incident there back in ‘05, nothing illegal mind you, sort of a personal episode I’ll not go deep into here, but it was daunting enough for me to swear off Vegas for the foreseeable future and that ended up lasting near two decades.
Then the Sphere opened two years back in ‘23, and me being the concert whore that I am, what with one of my favorite bands (U2) playing in full one of my favorite albums (Achtung Baby) to christen the Sphere’s initial operation, I finally forced myself to face my past demons and return, if only to see the world’s most impressive concert venue ever constructed. I’m happy to say I banished those ghosts of antiquity and enjoyed a hero’s welcome back to the Las Vegas Strip. Your friendly neighborhood webbie will do a multi-part series on the Sphere over in sister column The Show soon enough.
During my initial return jaunt out there in December of ‘23 to see U2, at one point I stopped along the road to get out of the truck and wandered over to the shoulder. I knelt down and put my hand upon the baked pavement of Highway 15. I took a few deep breaths and basically sent out good thoughts to everyone I’ve ever met or known, banking on the assumption that at some point, everyone I’ve ever met or known had indeed whizzed by that same spot on the 15 at some point or another in their lifetimes. I know, I know. Hippie dippie fruitcake shit. I’ve done it before, once or twice, on those same roads I’ve heralded time and again hereabouts, again under the general impression everyone I’ve loved had driven upon that same stretch of pavement. I’m all about acts of tokenism and symbolism. It’s one of my spitball ways in establishing a corporeal way point to connect to the greater ether web, I guess. Doing my silly little roadside stuff feels like it adds to light and love, me thinking of them, loving them from afar through the muddy spectrum of existence, in a tiny action of which they’ll never know. Do I actually think said action might be a way to keep abreast of the All-Now, weaving past, present, and future as one? I don’t know. What I do know is, it doesn’t hurt, and I also know once I’ve loved someone, I don’t stop. Ever. That’s how I roll. What can I say. Your mileage may vary.
Anyway, it wasn’t until future excursions back to the Sphere (I’ve been eight times now, yes, the place is fucking epic) that I started thinking of this column and how I ought to do a piece on the 15, and so I started looking for the familiar descanso crosses, and lo and behold, there really weren’t that many. I know perfectly well plenty of folks die on the 15, what with its blistering speed limit of 70 MPH, which means, of course, most folks are doing 80-90 plus out there in the desert wastes on those long stretches between Victorville and Barstow, Baker and Primm.
By the by. Primm is a desperate place these days. Whiskey Pete’s, once a legendary custom in leaving Vegas and getting last blackjack fixes in before the long haul home, is closed now. Buffalo Bill’s is about to shutter as well, and the last man standing, Primm Valley Casino, is rumored to try and rally a last stand, but I don’t think it’ll fly. People just aren’t into stopping in Jean anymore, they wanna get to Vegas or leave Vegas fast. It’s a turnbuckle age we live in. In keeping with my descanso tradition, I did consider hunting down Whiskey Pete’s new grave site - his old one was discovered when construction workers came upon it as they graded a hillside for a light rail service between Whiskey Pete’s and Buffalo Bill’s across the freeway. I figured it was probably close enough to the 15 to count as a roadside memorial. After a quick Google search, it appears his remains were reburied somewhere around the property and apparently nobody knows where (Honestly, I’d hazard a guess some billionaire procured them for their own Sin City collection of legendary Vegas-themed oddities and curios).
There weren’t that many descansos on the east or westbound 15, no doubt due to highway crews keeping the shoulders clear, but I found a handful, including this one below honoring one Destiny Maserang, having passed in August of ‘24. I wasn’t sure what was more stark and saddening, her presumed additional companion honored near her, colloquially named Dobby (had to be a pet, I assumed, though I suppose the additional cross could’ve been erected for Destiny herself, Dobby being her nickname), or the Christmas motif tendered by her loved ones, still prevalent near a year later in October of ‘25. I certainly found the personalized epitaph on the cross heartwarming: You did good Slick. That’s something I might say, actually. I’m enough of a gold coast hick to still use terms like Slick, Sport, or Ace.
This next shrine I came upon, not far from Baker, was an all-American sort of descanso, a frequent shrine style for veterans. This fellow, whose name was not readily apparent about the site, was also seemingly a poker player, and I appreciated that fellowship with him as I too, am a poker player. I wished him better luck on his travels and presumed he was chasing flushes in the next world, though I’m entirely unsure if card games are part of the upper spheres. His loved ones left a poker medallion upon his marker. It goes without saying, but I’ll say it all the same, if you decide to stop and honor a roadside shrine, do not under any circumstances fiddle with anything there, and definitely take nothing from it. That’s some bad juju. Even us dark and mysterious lowlifes know that much.
This next larger cross was off the road, on private property or federal land, honoring one Jennifer Alise, near as I could make out.
This last descanso I found on the 15 farther south in Temecula, technically still on the road to Vegas for San Diegans. It memorializes a California Highway Patrol officer named Steven Licon, for whom that sector of Highway 15 is named, as can be seen in the photos below.
The 15 is a speedy freeway, often three or four lanes on each side, and the wide open spaces north of Victorville practically invite folks to put the pedal to the metal, what with the dearth of highway patrol cars and the temptation of multiple fast lanes. People are eager to plunge into their intended debauchery, be it gambling or sex or food or pool time or whatever, and they’re just as often eager to get home after a weekend of sunburned highs and blackjack lows. Slow down, kids. The desert seems like a good place to zip, but it ain’t. You’ll be sipping your Mai Tais and placing your bets soon enough, or you’ll be home in your real bed before you know it.
Dobby, I’m sure you’re a good girl or boy, wherever you might be with your mommy Destiny. Maybe somewhere in the spheres, you both might come across that old drunken prospector Whiskey Pete himself, who also transcended his physical form from that high desert heat into a much greater and likely cooler expanse. Tell that old bastard we’re still talkin’ about him all these years later.