SouthWestSlide: _{Spring 2004}

Phase One_(a)
Wherein we actually Hit The Trail southward

This is it! (Again.) We're finally on our way! (Again.) Maybe this time we'll get somewhere and stay there (or somewhere else) for some period of time. And maybe monkeys will fly outa my butt.

Following is the (resumed) account of ... well, you'll see...

Day 1: Departure Again
(Tues 30 March 2004)

DEPARTURE: Late morning - start the RV engine and ROLL OUT!! FINALLY!! (Again.) Hit the post office, then head UPHILL this time. [Oops - several minutes of taped notes are lost - failed to record - operator error.]

And now we're up over Carson Pass and down into Hope Valley. We were up to almost 9000 feet, now we're down to 7000, it's still winter over here. We were gonna stop for lunch at Sorenson's but they had a sign up, PLEASE WAIT TO BE SEATED. And we waited. And they never came arount to seat us. Seems to me the last time we stopped there the food wasn't that great, so I don't think we need to bother going there anymore. It's a thumbs-down. Bye-bye, Sorenson's.

FURTHER: We've stopped by the roadside a couple of times here to stretch ourselves and the cat. The wind is, shall we say, BRACING. Or BITING. Or DEVOURING. And the campgrounds are all closed - funny 'bout that. The west fork of the Carson River is in fine flow, frothing and flying. It's not like we wanted to camp up here anyway.

And as we descend further down the valley the vista opens before us of desert mountains in Nevada, just traces of snow out there, the merest traces. Here, pine trees drop away like feathers from a boiled duck.

Early afternoon: We stopped for lunch at Woodsfords Station, an old Pony Express station for a few months a hundred and fifty years ago. The atmosphere, is quaint, funky-clean, not too cutesy. Most notable are the vast collection of boogerpicker caps donated by people from many institutions, hanging in lines just below the ceiling. Good hearty sandwiches and hardy homemade chili, a real deal. Recommended.

This is obviously a favorite fueling stop for bicyclists - one book for sale here is SPOKES AND JOKES ACROSS THE US and there are various posters around for the California Death Ride, which runs thru here every year.

So, Pony Express or Death Rides - which was more hazardous?

Mid-afternoon: We're down in the Carson Valley heading north along the east face of the Sierras. Lenticular clouds, striated like spinning negative 8-balls, hanging over that high escarpment just east of Tahoe, up ahead. Down here the meadows are green, meltwater's flowing thru, herds are chomping away at the grass, newborn calves yelling like they are worried - which they should be.

Fuel up in Minden, head south on US 395. We sweep down the road to an overlook beholding Topaz Lake with great honking snowy mountains beyond. Lower elevations are all green but a dusty green, Sky is blue but a dusty blue. Further on, going up the floodplain of the Walker River, we roll thru cottonwood forests and juniper woodlands, sagebrush valleys, old farms and new housing developments scattered here'n'there. Fields covered with virtuous water, informal duckponds, this mile-high terrain was recently watered... The forecast is maybe a slight chance of rain tonight, but I don't believe it, looking around now...

We came thru here late last summer, going in the opposite direction on a trip from Yosemite. I think I described the area then as having a real Wild West look, and that label still stands - this is RUGGED country.

Early Evening: Continuing south along the sinuous Walker River we cut thru a stupendous rocky gorge, so sublimely rugged. We've always wanted to camp there but this is not the season for it. It's still winter up here at something over 6000 feet. And we're about out of LP gas so we can't run the heater tonight. Discretion forces us onwards. And after that gorge - what, Shingle Mill? that's one of the names we saw there - we're back in steeply rolling sagebrush hills backed with steep snowy mountains. The setting sun gives the sky a translucent mother-of-pearl glow.

And as we traverse this high dry cold rugged country I think back on the days when gold fever swept the land and hardy bands of brave insane greedy sado-masochists scoured the landscape for precious metal with very little to show for their efforts - here'n'there a few strikes like Bodie (further south) but for the most part, just miserable focking tedious fruitless toil.

Late Evening: We crested Devil's Gate Pass, swooped down the long slide into Bridgeport, come into the big valley that surrounds the town, a vast meadow - spring has not touched here yet either, everything's still brown. The sky is a leaden grey looking ominous. Ah, what frigid winters nights we have spent in arctic Bridgeport in years past! With a couple of memorable dogs. My eyes moisten...

And as the evening gloom settles we pull up beside Bridgeport Resevoir. Looking across the refrigerated waters there arises an inchoate mass of rocky crags and spires, enough to scare anyone into submission. Anyone except Snowshoe Thompson. A scene of sublime and awful beauty. And below, the few lights of Bridgeport town, bravely holding off the overwhelming mass of the Sierras. Like, like, like... (I was gonna put in some absurd metaphor here but what the hell, I'm too tired.)

Day 2: Down The Sierras
(Wed 31 March 2004)

Bridgeport: Early morning, 5:30 am, it's COLD outside, the windows are frosted - I threw a pot of piss out the door, it's probably frozen on the ground already. The wanton winds only howled a little bit last night. The cat hadn't the strength to, or was too cold to. The scene across the lake with the gnarly mountains behind is awesomely sublime. There are some very cold (I would imagine) waterfowls splashing around down there. Little masochists. Or desperate.

From our vantage, looking south down the road, the gnarliest of the mountains is straight ahead, looming over tiny Brideport village. It's all so ineffably picturesque. But cold.

We go up to the Bridgeport cemetary, take pictures of the town - it's a vey bleak cemetary, lots of basic crosses, just two pieces if channel iron bolted together. Lots of carved angels. A good one - I should have stopped to take a picture but it's too cold - a marble tree stump with a miner's pick carved into the side.

Then old quonset huts, trailers, really basic structures - once you get off the main street of Bridgeport, what there is of town, there's lotsa modulars, a fair number of trailer parks. And in Topaz and Walker, all the towns along here are like this. Almost all the residences could just be picked up and hauled away if necessary.

Lee Vining: We rolled over steep stony Conway Summit, highest point on US 395, with the vast view over aquamarine Mono Lake and its tan sandy verges and the indigo-violet mountains beyond, then down into the brine-shrimp village of Lee Vining for breakfast, but NO WAY - even usually dependable Nicely's is closed for Spring Cleaning (they call it).

We think of side-tripping over to (geology professor) Terry's place in Benton but it's too early, too cold, and Maureen's back still hurts. We're doing this trip in one hour stages to minimize her pain. And it appears that I didn't pack the cellphone. Well, we'll think of some way around the breakdown of communications. But I can't even call Terry to offer excuses. Bother.

Onwards: So onwards. Past the June Lake loop. We're back in deep winter country again, over Deadman's Summit. High snowy gnarly forested volcanic terrain. We pass some vistas and hopefully no suicidal deer. And as we approach the Mammoth Lakes junction the roadside mountains loom even larger, closer, gnarlier, more imposing. Just simply AWESOME views here. And so close. Any you're not seeing any of this. Suckers.

Some of the snowy roadside hillsides are covered with ski tracks. So folks don't have to use expensive paid lifts etc to get some fun in. Not that I personally consider skiing to be fun. Pay money to fall down in the slimey snow? Yeah, sure.

And past the Mammoth Lakes junction, we descend from the high country for this leg of the trip - we're dropping down into the Owen's Valley and will remain there and in other lower desert country for quite a ways.

singing:
 Drat! Drat! Drat! Drat! Don't stomp the cat
 Drat! Drat! Drat! Drat! Don't stomp the cat

Bishop CA - Everything else to the north being closed, we pull in here for brunch - we stopped at JACK'S, it looks like a local favorite since 1946 and with good reason. More non-slick decor, some cutesy stuff on the walls, cutesy Western stuff, but also HUGE prize-winning record-setting fish caught locally. The chandaliers are wagon wheels, the food is hearty. We got vegetarian and chili omelettes and they're huge fluffy omelettes with good fresh cheese, good huge fresh huge chunks of stuff embedded in them, great homemade biscuits and gravy on the side. A real hearty meal. Pleasant staff. Don't know about other meals but ya can't go wrong here for breakfast. Another money's worth. The thumbs thrusts up.

chanting:
 All this to'in' an' fro'in',
 we don't know where we're goin',
 an' it ain't even snowin'

Back out to Laws for the first time in 22 or 25 years, something like that. It's no longer just a railroad museum, now the whole village is a museum of regional life in decades and centuries past. Fairly nicely done displays of lots of collected stuff - some of it well-organized and some of it... well, they had to do SOMETHING with that donated model airplane collection. And all the Jim Beam bottles.

Owens Valley: Heading south from Bishop we can tell that we are approaching the outer limits of Owens Lake and beyond that the Greater Los Angeles Metroplex - we can tell because the sky is obscured. That is to say, it's full of shit. At this point it's white shit, that means that this nice strong wind that's blowing here is whipping up the surface of the dry lakebed and spreading it over hundreds of square miles, blasting alkalai dust into the outer surfaces of everything and everybody passing by.

Meanwhile off to the right rises the high High Sierra. Mt. Whitney is up there somewhere. Yes, this dust cloud ahead looks like... THE FOG! (cf. the horror film by John Carpenter) What unseemly monsters lurk behind its mysterious folds? What doom lies within?

This is cattle country. Lots of cattles along here, chomping away at what greenery there is in the fields, or throwing themselves into the little streamlets and sloughs to wash themselves down and grab a good drink. And yet at the edge of this unholy murk rises the highest of the High Sierras, like wrathful giants. One day they or their seismic kin will wipe out the aqueduct that drains away the lifeblood of the region and causes these dreadful dust storms.

Day 3: To The Sump, April Fool!
(Thur 1 April 2004)

Thursday morning: April Fool's Day hey! Barstow. We cruised thru beautiful metropolitan Hinckley to get to Barstool. Whizzing across the Stinkin'Desert, not much to say about it. Of course, the desert stinks more the faster you go. It only becomes a pleasant place when you slow down, stop, walk thru it.

In Barstool we're picking up some supplies and we had a (cough) 'brunch' at Del Taco. Combo burritos. I haven't eaten at a Del Taco in DECADES. And the combos - well, we had MACHO combos - well, they won't kill you - well, they're tasty enough - well, they're inexpensive enough. The thumb waggles back and forth.

Early afternoon, Old Woman Springs east of Lucerne Valley. Coming into Barstool we heard on the rah-dee-yoh that there'd been a major accident in Cajon Pass. Half of the interstate highway was blocked off. Traffic was real slow and being diverted. Good thing we hadn't planned on going that way. And in Barstool we further heard that northbound traffic was being routed all the out thru Yucca Valley and to Barstool from there, which is what, 100 or 150 miles out of the way? Well, we're going that way now (opposite direction) and there is a LOT of oncoming traffic.

We're also seeing, on the summits on the Barstow-Lucerne road, before and after the joshua tree forests we're seeing lots of roadside blooms. Lots of color, blue and white and yellow and green. Right now we're heading out for Landers where reportedly the blooms are good. But somehow I don't imagine that this road is full of interstate traffic very often. Which means that there may me lots of loonies out here who don't know how to drive these roads. Danger, Will Robinson, Danger!

The sky is hazy, a combination of dust and fog. It's supposed to be raining up around Las Vegas but not here. So our track will have us looping around the east end of the San Boogaloo mountains which from a distance show layers of shaded purple and mist.

Did I mention that it's windy? Yes, the wind is blowing. With great powah and vigah. (That's a JFK joke.) The heavily blooming creosote bushes are fluffing around like yellow fan-dancers.

Mid-afternoon, Landers Valley: as advertised, portions of the desert here are IN BLOOM and are SPECTACULAR! And we passed the famous (or infamous) INTEGRATON! Where Science And Spirit Meet! It doesn't say what they DO when they get together. It'd be wonderful to hang around here for the next open house, they do regular tours, also stay until clouds or sunset saturate the colors of the plants a bit more, but we have a date. So now we're off to Mira Loma and sister Marsha's. Dang.

Now we've dropped down on the Morongo Grade out of Yucca Valley into Whitewater Pass just above Palm Springs. Wind is blowing like crazy. Coming down the grade was really beautiful, blooms all over - up above were the orange mallows and blue verbenas and white-yellow joshua trees and yuccas, tissue-white huge natilja poppies - coming down the canyon there's golden chollas and more yuccas and various wild sunflowers, the brittlebush, encilia farinosa, more.

We race down the narrow steep winding deep-cut highway in its rocky slot above an ancient stream bed, then it opens out - and dead ahead looms monstrous Mt San Jacinto, two miles straight up from the bottom to the top of this face. And below it, windmill farms going off forever. And they are CHURNIN' today. The RV's shakin' all over like some giant cat's got us and she's dishin' us around like we're mangy rats. And we can see the weather blowing in from the coast, grey clouds hanging over the peaks, whipping thru thu this great pass.

Environment: The Coast-Transverse-Peninsular Ranges of mountains separate the coastal plains from the interior valleys and deserts. And around here the ranges are just over two miles high; and then there's this cut, two miles deep. There's 11,000 foot Mt San Jacinto on one side, to the south; and 11,000 foot Mt San Gorgonio and its kin on the north side; and then this knife-cut pass in between; and the wind gets a bit fierce here. If it's cool on the coast and warm inland, that inland air rises and the cold coast air comes blowin' in, providing a little relief for Palm Springs and sandblasting any car left out in the pass overnight.

Oh and NOW there's signs saying GUSTY WINDS AHEAD - so those were just breezes we went thru, now we get the tough stuff.

InterState 10: Woah, these windmills are huge, must be over 100 feet high, and there are hundreds of them. Sun rays beaming down thru the clouds on the arms of these windmills like spinning worshippers.

A few beams of light picking out the snow near the top of Mt San Jacinto, the rest of that massif is just blue shadows in the dense atmosphere. That shear escarpment on the San Jacinto rises two miles vertically in 1/2 mile horizontally. On the other side of the pass, Mt San Gorgonio and its surrounding peaks - Mt San Bernadino and the like - are all lost in the scheming clouds. And there's a beaming portal ahead of us.

Further westward in the pass there's more windmills, and more. A bit further on, a massive traffic jam we're caught in. And then the famous dinosaurs of Cabazon, still only two: the Tyrannosaur and the Brontisaur. (Beware dino farts.) And beyond the dinosaurs, still caught in the traffic jam, a TALL indian casino tower is being build. This seems like a strange place to build a skyscraper but there it is, square upon the achey-shakey San Andreas Fault.

Past the Cabazon truck scales, traffic started moving a bit again, then we move directly into fairly heavy rain, I guess that's at the top of the pass. Then we hit the highway fork, took the southern tine towards Riverside. Now we're driving thru the Riverside MalPais, the Badlands, rolling rugged sere austere hills. Sand hills, they look like, with atmospheric clouds and layers of blue hills and mountains off to the beakoning south.

Riverside: Getting thru Riverside was only moderately miserable, not near as bad as the last time I came thru. Still it's a good reminder of where not to live, where not to even travel very often. If at all.

Thursday night, Marsha and Dave's, it's raining gently. We went over to a fairly local (Ontario Mills) fast-food Greek place (Daphne's Greek Cafe) for a pleasant meal - the thumb is waggling up. The evening extended into a good chat. Bruce did a custom pour of a medieval warrior and horse for me out of pewter. Used a mold. A jolly good time was had by all, by all.

Day 4: To Anza-Borrocho
(Fri 2 April 2004)

Midday, south of Corona. Well we zipped around some of my old turf and hit the Palomares Adobe in Pomona and managed to luck-into a tour, and it was even better than I remembered. Just an excellent restoration of a not super-wealthy but well-to-do Californio rancho of the mid-to-late 1800s. Normally it's just open Sunday afternoon - we highly recommend a visit - everyone who reads this journal should go.

Then we wandered around the hinterlands of Pomona and Corona a bit - never did find the auctioneer - now we're thru with all that. The sky is still dripping, it's cloudy, the Santa Ana mountains separating us from Orange County is yet more layers of purple and grey and blue, hidden in the mist. That range is quite pretty, as near as we can tell, whipping along at 60 mph at their base. To the east, more barren hills, with a light coating of insurgent spring grass. And everywhere, industrial parks and housing developments sprouting like epidermal carcinomas.

More rain gently falling on the smogberry trees. Around the towns, many palm trees and eucalyptus and other familiar vegetation. This is all feeling very Central American. If ya can't go to Central America, visit Southern California and it will come to you.

Afternoon, Lake Elsinore village. This is probably a pleasant little resort town - hard to tell in this rather heavy rain. Well the air is certainly clear and the lake is scenic enough, it actually has water in it this year. The main drag has cutesy shops and antique stores and the like, and a few eateries.

We stopped for lunch at a small, let's say modesty upscale VietNamese joint. We had an absolutely fabulous chicken lunch special, a gingery lemon chicken of great flavor and texture. The engaging Mexican waiter chatted well. The place's design is modernly minimalist. Atmosphere: A. Food: A. Value: A+. And a note for those avoiding caffiene: if you can't taste the hibiscus tea, order artichoke tea. It actually tastes like artichokes, without all that butter and salt and stuff.

A note on the rain: I am not knocking the rain. Southern California is almost always better WITH rain than WITHOUT it.

Late afternoon, Pala. We went to the Pala Mission ex Asistencia, a very wonderful restoration on this reservation, with a nice little museum. Pala is noted as being the only of the California missions that has a separate bell tower, separate from the rest of the structure. It is said that is modeled on one in Juarez. And it is said that is is the only California mission that still ministers to Native Americans.

And the gardens are glorious, all watched over by a great fluffy white cat. Actually she may be more interested in the dovecote than in the rest of the gardens. Ah, the museum has a wonderful basketry collection (which is not surprising).

CLIMBING: And now we continue into the deepening twilight, into the rain (drizzle). Such a relief. Climbing, eventually towards Julian. We're going thru zones of orange orchards and masses of bright red bougainvillea, and nurseries with palm trees, tons of birds-of-paradise, the roads lined with giant opuntia. O yes, the air is sweet with orange blossom scent. Now these orchards are not laid out with billiard-table purity. This road is climbing and twisting and snaking all over, and all the orchards and nurseries and gardens are just dug in on the nap of the earth. Aw, I shouldn't have said 'nap,' I'm tired...

And as we climb, 2500, 3000 feet, we transition from the Pala to the La Jolla indian reservations, the orange orchards drop away. Now there's oak groves and pastures, and the turnoff to Mt Palomar, which is at the moment lost in the wet clouds.

We roller-coaster around the 3000 foot elevation, past piles of brightly purple blooming ceanothus, and past more pastures, oaks up above. The deeper we get, the heavier the clouds, and damper. Maureen says that in Ireland this would be a 'soft' day, with this kinda moisture. Yeah, it's focking WET!

We climb further, almost to Julian. The air's wetter but the countryside is drier. The gnarly rocks and twisty trees and brush clutching up at the sky, writhing their limbs in this heavy mist, give the terrain that mystic Celtic look. Traces of the massive forest fires of last year add to that impression too. Not desolation, but definately a traumatized landscape. Burnt trees stand accusing the drivers passing by: "Look what you humans have done to us!" Or maybe I'm being overly dramatic. Especially in a fire-climax zone. Heh heh.

And now in the outskirts of Julian we're in apple country, the trees in glorious state of blossom. Easy on both eyes and nose. And at 4000 feet, blooms of King Alfred daffodils. At 4000 feet, Julian is the apple-growing capitol of San Diego County and the only Gold Rush town in the county and it's tarted-up for tourists. I remember the news stories of last year's great fires and the heroic efforts of firefighters and citizens to save the town, and it worked. One-seventh of the county burnt up. Yow.

DESCENDING: Leaving Julian we head east for the dry side. After painfully clawing our way up the Coast-Peninsular Range peaks we now drop precipitously in a series of steep sharp curves, ARRRGGGGHHHH!! (That was a scream of terror.)

(Insert here: Harry Oliver's clip about the bridge out on the Julian-Borrego road.)

Did I mention the yuccas in bloom? There's been yuccas and nolinas in bloom on both sides of the ridge. And as we drop there's more ceanothus (California Lilac) in bloom, both purple and white, And a thorny beast it is too, makes for a good bramble patch. Think, Bre'r Rabbit Goes West.

We dropped further thru a rugged canyon trailing along a tumultuous creek. The hillsides are getting rockier, barer, sparser except for the yuccas sticking up like cool candles in the oncoming night. Then we open out onto a much more level alluvial plain with mesquites and palo verdes beside the road like great screwbrean pincushions. Around us, a grey-purple bowl of mountains holding the clouds at bay.

STOPPING: And we finally pull in at Yaqui Pass under the pearlescent sky. There's a full moon hiding up there somewhere. Here, the sand and brush [mumble]. Anza-Borrocho Desert State Park at last! Go to sleep.

I Ain't Really A Cowboy

I ain't really a cowboy, I just bought the hat
I don't know how to rope a steer, I never done nothin' like that
I cain't even git on a horse 'cause I'm much too fat
I aint't really a cowboy, dum de dum de dum de dum de dum