Photo Essay: The Shrinking Southern Tip of the Salton Sea

We call the Salton Sea a ghost town, but that's a misnomer—not only because the sea is so huge that its surrounding area is comprised of many towns, but also because it's still considered a significant recreation area by the State of California and wildlife habitat by the U.S. Fish and Wildlife Service.



At the southern tip of the Salton Sea, there's the Sonny Bono National Wildlife Refuge—perhaps an obvious choice of places to visit while you're visiting the salty sea, but it took me nearly 10 years to get there.



I guess I expected it to be nice there, which would be contrary to the narrative that had been unfolding before me—of a "poisonous playa" or a watery wasteland.



But even this federally-managed site is struggling, as its shoreline recedes and the habitat for a number of birds, fish, and invertebrates disappears.



For eons, the Salton Sea has been an important bird migration spot along the Pacific Flyway—but this year, the birds haven't been coming in droves as much as before, despite the five manmade "nursery islands" that were installed to provide a safe nesting place (and the freshwater that's pumped in).



Sure, you might see a Black Skimmer, eared grebe, or black-necked stilt here or there...



...but by and large, this prehistoric, otherworldly landscape is characterized more as a dry, rock desert that was once underwater but may never be again.



In 1987, Field & Stream called the Salton Sea "California's most productive fishery in terms of catch per angler hour," citing Rock Hill as one of the more popular fishing areas (despite toxic levels of selenium being found in all species of fish caught except tilapia).



Not so much anymore. But these 32,766 acres surrounding and including Rock Hill—a small, inactive volcano surrounded by obsidian—were set aside as a sanctuary and breeding ground for wildlife all the way back in 1930. The sea has shrunken since then. Its shores have morphed even since 1998, when the refuge was renamed in honor of 1960s pop star, Palm Springs mayor, and California congressman Sonny Bono.



Two rivers actually feed into this area—the New River and the Alamo River—but because the sea has no outlet, the freshwater just mixes with the salty sludge and the irrigation runoff from nearby farmland and then evaporates, leaving a trail of particulate matter and mineral dust in its wake. Hence the annual fish die-offs, as well as the zero-visibility dust storm I'd driven through the day before.



A stone's throw from Rock Hill is the aptly-named Red Hill, where county, state, and federal officials have already broken ground on a 420-acre restoration project to protect the bay and marina area as a shallow-water wetland habitat. But it's so dry there now, you can't even tell.



At 227 feet below sea level, this dry lakebed hasn't seen water in quite some time, though reportedly it was once hip-deep.



Even the summit of "Red Hill"—another volcano, which was once an island in the sea—is only about 100 feet higher than that, still below "sea level." As a result of the low elevation, you can experience a kind of reverse altitude sickness that results in hypoxia (lack of oxygen).



Campers still come here to spend the night, though, and rockhounds and gem and mineralists search for volcanic rock like pumice and volcanic glass like obsidian.



With all this volcanic activity (and a geothermal reservoir that's one of the world’s most potent), it's no wonder that there are so many geothermal power plants that operate in this region to convert the heat bubbling up from the ground into usable, clean, and sustainable energy.



That means much of the activity that's happening in the Red Hill area is underfoot. Even on a not-so-hot day, there's not much happening above ground at the nearby county park or the so-called marina.



The water that you see there is part of the Alamo River Delta, but the docks are sinking into the sink...



...the tethers no longer toil, with the lack of tides.



But an alien landscape isn't far beneath the rippled surface of the beleaguered sea, that salty, sulfuric lake that once had too much water and now doesn't have enough.



In fact, 2017 is the last year that irrigation waters will be diverted into the sea to mitigate the potential dust problem. Experts estimate that the Salton Sea will continue to shrink—even more quickly than before—in 2018.



And 10 years from now, the Salton Sea will consist of nearly 100 square miles of exposed dry lakebed.

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Photo Essay: The Museum That's Gone Bananas

I guess you'd expect to find a wacky collection of tropical fruit out in the desert.



But while the area surrounding the Salton Sea is generally dominated by palm date groves and offerings of date shakes, there's only one place where you can have your pick of a banana sundae, a banana shake, or a banana bread muffin: the International Banana Museum.



In the town of Mecca near the North Shore of the Salton Sea (just up Highway 111 from the failed balloon festival grounds), just look for the bright yellow robot banana, a creation of outsider artist Kenny Irwin of Robolights fame.



Past that and through the door, you're welcome to "go bananas" for a nominal fee of $3 (waived if you buy something, which you definitely should)...



...and surround yourself with the world's largest collection devoted to the banana (or, any one fruit, for that matter).



Of course, you'll be in good company with other banana lovers...



...and every kind of banana-fana-fo-fana you can imagine...



...from Chiquita and Dole...



...to bananas in disguise...

...banana splits...



...and way beyond.



They're all ready to party with you.



Some might even sing to you.



But you have to be sure it's a real banana...



...and not just somebody dressed up as one...



...or some monkey dressed as one, for that matter.



Of course, there's plenty of opportunity to monkey around at the Banana Museum...



...but the "top banana" here, of course, is the fruit.



And that includes not only how it looks in various commercial and artistic renderings...



...but also how it tastes.



If it's not the most a-peeling destination in the world, it certainly is along the eastern shore of the Salton Sea—especially if you're looking for some refreshment beyond what Bombay Beach has to offer at the Ski Inn.

It's a new discovery for me at the Salton Sea, as its current iteration opened in 2012, during a nearly six-year period of me being absent from the area. And now, I'm glad to see that it fits perfectly here, in this land—and sea—of misfits, misunderstandings, and tropical heat.

After all, nobody needs a fruit shaped like a smile more than the denizens of the Salton Sea.

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Sunrising the Salton Sea and Its Forever Folly

Sunrising the Salton Sea and Its Forever Folly

I'd been itching to return to the Salton Sea. After all, it had been more than six years since I was last there.

Is it possible I'd only visited once since actually moving to California? Time flies—especially when you've got lots of exploring to do.



For my prior visits to the areas surrounding this large, inland sea, I'd always stayed in Palm Springs or Joshua Tree or Anza-Borrego. But this time—especially considering the fact that I planned to attend a balloon race on the water at sunrise—I decided to support the community and stay local.



Of course, there are no hotels actually at the Salton Sea—you'd have to go to Brawley for that—so, since I didn't plan to set up camp, my only other choice was one of the off-grid accommodations offered on Airbnb at Slab City.



Specifically, I chose to stay in a tiny red barn by the Coachella Canal at the California Ponderosa, hosted by a friendly and creative desert rat named George.



This wasn't my first time in Slab City, the abandoned site of the Marine Corps barracks of the World War II training facility known as Camp Dunlap—I'd been once in 2010 on my way out of Salvation Mountain.



But I felt uncomfortable photographing it back then. As abandoned as it may look and seem, people live there.



They may live in trailers, off the grid, far from utilities and law enforcement, but this is their home. It felt insensitive to gawk or even linger long enough to snap a photo.



But Slab City has become a perfect destination for hosts who want to create unusual accommodations for guests from around the world and for visitors who want to get away from it all—including running water, electricity, telephone lines, and occasionally a cell phone signal.



But I spent the night in "The Slabs" listening to the wind rattle the rafters of my makeshift cabin and falling asleep to the sound of a banjo playing and a freight train moaning in the distance. And I woke up there, the sky still full of stars, George's dog sniffing my hand as I scuttled over to the "ladies room" (which is basically a toilet in a teardrop trailer), and I made my way to the Sea.



I'd been lured by the promise of a sunrise event called "The Great California Balloon Race," scheduled for 7 a.m., as well as a sunset event called "The Lowest Glow On Earth"—but, to be honest, both were just an excuse to go back to this desolate, desert area that continues to inspire me.

For months leading up to them, they seemed like such a good way to revitalize the communities around the sea and draw some visitors, get some press, make some money. But we all forgot that the main thing that characterizes the Salton Sea is folly.

Its modern iteration resulted from the flooding of the former, ancient Salton Sink—something that was supposed to be temporary. When it didn't evaporate as planned, locals made the best of it and tried to transform it into a kind of California Riviera, whose salinity gave it a buoyancy that made speedboat racing and waterskiing particularly exciting there.

And then the fish die-offs. And then the bird deaths. And then the resulting smell.

And the floods—one of which consumed half of Bombay Beach.

And then, a problem of the exact opposite nature: a receding shoreline that's leaving behind so much dry dust and particulate matter (much of which is salt and other mineral deposits, as well as disintegrating fish and bird bones) that just breathing in the air there can be hazardous to your health.

I'd been reading about the dust storms, but I hadn't experienced them myself—that is, until this weekend.

I was prepared for the smell of dead fish and rotting birds and horse manure (and the flies that follow). But I was not prepared for 50 mph winds that created white-out conditions on Highways 86S and 78 and the 8 Freeway, starting at the north shore of the sea in Riverside County and intermittently relentless until I got way past the sea, through the Imperial Dunes, and to the other side of Imperial County, practically at the Arizona border.

That was the day before the balloon race and "low glow."

So, it should've come as no surprise that the hot air balloon events of the next day would be cancelled.

But, of course, they weren't cancelled. Not officially. After all, this is the Salton Sea. And the Salton Sea is coming back, isn't it?

One day, anyway. That's what they say, anyway.

Maybe other event organizers in another area would've called the whole thing off preemptively, but these folks had to try. In the morning, one pilot got one balloon fired up—mostly, but not enough. After three hours or so of failure, all the pilots packed up their balloons and baskets and left.

So much for the balloon rides that many folks had reserved in advance.

I thought that would be the end of the so-called "SeaFest," but it wasn't. Even though most of the vendors were late in setting up. Even though only a couple of drivers showed up for the vintage car show. Even though there was no way that anyone was going to get a balloon up for any length of time, at any time before the event was scheduled to end.

I left the festival grounds around 10:30 a.m. and set off to busy myself with the adventures that had really brought me back to the Salton Sea, but, in good faith, I returned around 3:30 in the afternoon, a half hour after the pilots were supposed to have returned with their balloons.

Not a balloon in sight.

I could've waited around until 5, when they were supposed to launch again, but I had my doubts about the potential for success at the Salton Sea. I decided to bag it, knowing I might regret it if the wind miraculously died down and the "glow" happened as planned.

It turns out that the pilots did eventually get all eight balloons up in the air—sort of. It was after the event had "officially" ended, and the state park rangers had been turning people away for hours, telling them the event was cancelled.

Just a few stragglers managed to tough it out and witness the event, which failed to be epic.

But it wasn't even an epic failure—it just fizzled.

And so many people felt deceived and ripped off (though the event was free, parking was $7)—and, by virtue of their lack of communication or miscommunication, the organizers ended up discrediting themselves.

I'm not sure they can do this event again in the future and have anyone believe that they will deliver as promised.

Now, I don't blame them for the weather conditions. All balloons are subject to the wind—as are hang gliders, paragliders, and other aeronautic vessels and contraptions.

But it's not fair to dump a bunch of false hope onto spectators–especially not at the Salton Sea, where promises are almost always empty and hopes are almost always dashed.

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Remembering Salvation Mountain's Leonard Knight, RIP

I first visited the Salton Sea area in 2008, but I was basically only on the west shores end of it, and there is a lot more to see than that. The only mountains I really saw were those I drove through in Anza-Borrego to get to that massive bright blue body of water, just as blue in real life as on the map when we first spotted it.

I didn't yet know about the mountain on the other side, the manmade mountain of trash and papier mâché and paint, the ever-growing mountain of salvation: Leonard Knight's Salvation Mountain.



When I finally visited it nearly two years later, I wasn't sure what to do. After all, this was Leonard's home. He still lived there. I generally try to stay away from private property and residences; I don't have much interest in occupied abodes.



But I knew this was someplace special, out in the middle of the desert in a town called Niland in Imperial County, where lots of people who have lost hope go to escape their troubles...



...and, perhaps, find salvation.



When I arrived, I parked out front trepidatiously, but I saw the shadow of a man passing by quickly, calling out "Welcome!" and then disappearing. I knew it must be Leonard. I knew it must be OK for me to visit.



So I had a good look around at the sprawling property, which isn't just a mountain, but an assemblage of vehicles for Leonard's message:



...trucks, boats, and a mountain all broadcasting, "God Is Love."



A new coat of paint was being added daily.



Out there in the desert, forever exposed to the unforgiving sun, sometimes the painted message would fade...



...but Leonard's spirit would not.



I never saw Leonard again during my visit, which was unusual because he was notoriously chatty with visitors. But on that day, during my visit, he had something to do inside, something more important than chat up a solo traveler like me. He had cats to take care of. He had big plans.

So without him, I walked all along the top ridge of the mountain, looking down at his work of art, reading his messages upside-down, eyes darting back and forth between all of the colors, the white so bright in the hot desert heat.

I haven't gotten to return to Salvation Mountain since then, my visits to the Salton Sea becoming less frequent despite now residing in Southern California, and my travel plans usually focusing on places I haven't been to yet. Since my last visit, Leonard's health began to fail, and dementia set in. Members of the community aided in transitioning him to a home where he could be cared for, and reached out to fans and followers worldwide to let them know where to send cards and their own messages and prayers and wishes. Volunteers took over maintenance of the mountain.

We lost Leonard last week, too soon at age 82. Before he died, he told his caregivers that all of his dreams for the Mountain were coming true, even more than he'd dared hope for. After realizing that he wouldn't be able to leave his care center to return to his mountain, he said that there was nothing more he could do for it now, but maybe he could do something from the other side.

I never sent a card. I never knew Leonard. I don't even think I ever really knew his Mountain, though I spent a little time there.

These things I regret.

I plan to return for one of their work parties, where volunteers help maintain the mountain. It's the least I can do.

I'm betting that the focus must now be on preserving and repairing it. The best way to remember and honor Leonard is to continue to do his work. But it's sad to think it will no longer expand and evolve.

One of the best depictions I've ever seen of Salvation Mountain is in the film Into the Wild, a brief clip of which you can view here: