The things about Southern California that first repelled me are those that now attract me mercilessly: the heat, the sun, and the feeling that it's frozen in time sometime between 1940 and 1965. I think after my first visit to LA, naive about mid-century modern architecture, I declared, "It's new, but it's old."
This, of course, was coming from a girl who'd only lived in Syracuse (industrial wasteland vs. Revolutionary and Civil War sacred grounds), London (medieval vs. WWI), and New York City (18th century vs. 21st century). I didn't understand the appeal of crusty, flaking, fading buildings that had been built less than a century ago, whose neon showed signs of life with an occasional zzt-zzt and a flicker.
And now I sit in Palm Springs, the Mecca of mid-century modern architecture and the birthplace of desert modern (mostly thanks to Albert Frey who also largely contributed to the architectural landscape of the Salton Sea). I relish in leisure by the pool of a former Howard Johnson's, drinking and eating from a former space-age Denny's, surrounded by that which is old-yet-new, and loving it. This morning's breeze was too cool for me so I travelled down desert for some real heat. And although I sit in the shade as I write, I peek out into the sun now and then to take a swim and to deepen the color which has arisen out of my skin, leaving a stark white watch line as only evidence of my former self.
So what changed from my first impression of LA's dirty, derelict streets?
The body has an incredible ability to adjust to heat and light and metabolize at whatever rate you give it food. It can heal itself, sneeze out allergens, fend off antigens, and clean itself out. When you burn it, it sheds a few layers of skin to reveal a new beingunderneath. I think simply exposing my body to California's spoils has made me love it. The brain, on the other hand, takes far more nuturing. I'm not sure if the mind ever really recovers from a trauma, working out its details through dreams and night terrors and daydreams and drunken encounters that make you wonder, "Did that really happen? Or did I just dream it?"
California depresses me but I think I like being depressed. I am comforted by others' failures. I am minimalized by tragedy which has struck others. At my lowest point, I will probably never be as low as Death Valley Borax workers or Joshua Tree miners and ranchers.
But still, in modern architecture, there's a whimsey missing that's ever-present in mid-century modern architecture. If dreams can take on the form of the building, Palm Springs is where you can see your dreams come true.
As I get older, I'm glad to see some history. I prefer the crumbling remains of a Palm Springs lush life to the glassy towers being built on the Williamsburg and Long Island City waterfronts. I'm glad to see an old abandoned Denny's turned into a hip little restaurant that serves white bean dip with pita and chilaquiles and fish tacos. I'll gladly walk among the ruins until someone finds a better use for them. Just don't tear them down. Our scars tell more about us than the makeup we plaster over them.
Making up for lost time and missed opportunities, one adventure at a time.
July 07, 2009
Where Does My Garden Grow?
I watered the plants again this morning. It's an every-three-days task that takes three or more hours, and that I have split into two days. Which means I water today and tomorrow, I have Thursday off, and I water again Friday and Saturday.
And then I leave.
Watering the plants - the slow drip method of irrigators - is a meditative process, communal with the birds that flock to the newly-watered ocotillo, and cottontail that sneak sips straight from the hose until I approach to shift it. This morning the wind was howling, casting a cool breeze that's unusual for even 6 a.m. Usually the wind doesn't blow like that until the early evening leading into twilight. The beavertail cactus squeaked its rubbery surface steadily in the wind. The sprinklers sprayed a finer mist than usual, and I swear I felt its spray around the corner on the porch, in my shaded area where I usually drink water, read, and look out over the Joshua Tree Highlands. Sometimes I forget to read because my eyes are too busy scanning the hills that stretch out from The Desert Lily. Although we are only 2.5 miles from the main highway, there is no traffic noise. No cars or trucks are rumbling through the bumpy dirt roads that aren't maintained by the city. No ATVs are revving in the upper hills. Just birds, flies, the wind, and my own heavy breathing from dragging hoses and climbing gentle slopes.
I don't feel lonely, all by myself. Not here in the Highlands, with the yucca and creosote and cat's claw and cholla (damn cholla) and the fragrant flowers that attract me as much as the hummingbirds.
I feel loneliest down the hill, where the people are. It's crushing for me to be sitting in Water Canyon, and be greeted by a vacant stare from Tammy, one of The Desert Lily's neighbors, when I smile as she walks by. Or from Jesse, another neighbor, who at least takes a double take, thinks twice about it, and keeps walking. I could announce myself but I don't. As much as the town has given up on me being a temporary resident, I too have given up on the town.
Eric, the young mohawked artist who asked for my number two weeks ago and has never used it, at least stopped by my lonely spot to say hello yesterday. I'd just booked my return trip home. He talked of his new internship at a talent agency as though offering up an excuse, an explanation, an apology, a peace offering. I feigned interest in his professional pursuits and smiled at him, chin in hand, asking questions as uninteresting as their answers. Another boy his age - a fellow drug recreationist, maybe an artist too - stopped by and distracted Eric from our conversation, sitting down with us and not introducing himself. I smiled at him and tried to engage in the conversation but gave up quickly when Eric did not introduce me. I thought Eric had maybe forgotten my name and the real reason he never called was because he couldn't find me in his phone. How many times had that happened to the guys I'd given my number to?
I looked for an opening in the conversation but the boys were now facing each other, deep in meaningless conversation. I turned my attention back to my laptop, too distracted to accomplish anything significant so I kept flicking Alt-Tab with my left hand, toggling between applications, trying to look busy but dying for them to leave. The immediate proximity of being ignored was excruciating.
Eric excused himself to go have a cigarette, and although I was sad to see him go, I couldn't have withstood the present social interaction (or lack thereof) much longer.
I don't know when I lost sight of Eric standing outside smoking, but when I next looked up, he was gone. He hadn't even said goodbye.
This morning during my water ritual, I started to come to terms with the finality of my last week here. I've only had to water the plants just a handful of times since I arrived, and at first I was grateful for a reason to get up, a purpose to my stay here, a contribution to The Desert Lily's livelihood. The hotter it gets, the drier it gets, kicking up a sandy dust that I breathe in all night and then cough out in the shower in the morning. It takes longer to water the trees and bushes that soak up the moisture immediately. The drizzles on the ground from my hose transport evaporate in minutes. As I consider my water footprint (something of which I became acutely aware on Jesse and Max's houseboat), I wonder whether it's really doing any good to water these plants, whether it's fair to have a garden in the desert. What I'm doing is not agriculture. I'm not harvesting flowers or fruit or roots or nectar here. I'm growing beauty, perhaps unnaturally, perhaps selfishly.
My mind goes back to thoughts that are nearly a year old now, of looking for a greater purpose to my existence - the entire reason I applied for Peace Corps in the first place. Now that I've had some time to accept my rejection from service, I still can't help but think I was meant to do more, to help more, to provide more, to contribute more. This trip - an egomaniacal exercise in creativity and selfish tourism - has only intensified those feelings.
I'd be OK with being so alone if I were a park ranger, or a student of the desert, or a cultivator of soil or soul or culture or love or life. But I'm living a life that's not my own out here, and my existence is just hanging in the ether, waiting to evaporate completely like the spilled water of every third morning, or collect somewhere onto something, into some kind of solid that someone can see, touch, smell, consume.
It's not like I have much of a purpose in New York. But the life I live there is mine, as unhappy as I may be with it. And although I'm terribly lonely in a city sea of millions of people, I know that there are a few that I have an affect on: who I make laugh, I make cry, and I inspire and motivate.
And then I leave.
Watering the plants - the slow drip method of irrigators - is a meditative process, communal with the birds that flock to the newly-watered ocotillo, and cottontail that sneak sips straight from the hose until I approach to shift it. This morning the wind was howling, casting a cool breeze that's unusual for even 6 a.m. Usually the wind doesn't blow like that until the early evening leading into twilight. The beavertail cactus squeaked its rubbery surface steadily in the wind. The sprinklers sprayed a finer mist than usual, and I swear I felt its spray around the corner on the porch, in my shaded area where I usually drink water, read, and look out over the Joshua Tree Highlands. Sometimes I forget to read because my eyes are too busy scanning the hills that stretch out from The Desert Lily. Although we are only 2.5 miles from the main highway, there is no traffic noise. No cars or trucks are rumbling through the bumpy dirt roads that aren't maintained by the city. No ATVs are revving in the upper hills. Just birds, flies, the wind, and my own heavy breathing from dragging hoses and climbing gentle slopes.
I don't feel lonely, all by myself. Not here in the Highlands, with the yucca and creosote and cat's claw and cholla (damn cholla) and the fragrant flowers that attract me as much as the hummingbirds.
I feel loneliest down the hill, where the people are. It's crushing for me to be sitting in Water Canyon, and be greeted by a vacant stare from Tammy, one of The Desert Lily's neighbors, when I smile as she walks by. Or from Jesse, another neighbor, who at least takes a double take, thinks twice about it, and keeps walking. I could announce myself but I don't. As much as the town has given up on me being a temporary resident, I too have given up on the town.
Eric, the young mohawked artist who asked for my number two weeks ago and has never used it, at least stopped by my lonely spot to say hello yesterday. I'd just booked my return trip home. He talked of his new internship at a talent agency as though offering up an excuse, an explanation, an apology, a peace offering. I feigned interest in his professional pursuits and smiled at him, chin in hand, asking questions as uninteresting as their answers. Another boy his age - a fellow drug recreationist, maybe an artist too - stopped by and distracted Eric from our conversation, sitting down with us and not introducing himself. I smiled at him and tried to engage in the conversation but gave up quickly when Eric did not introduce me. I thought Eric had maybe forgotten my name and the real reason he never called was because he couldn't find me in his phone. How many times had that happened to the guys I'd given my number to?
I looked for an opening in the conversation but the boys were now facing each other, deep in meaningless conversation. I turned my attention back to my laptop, too distracted to accomplish anything significant so I kept flicking Alt-Tab with my left hand, toggling between applications, trying to look busy but dying for them to leave. The immediate proximity of being ignored was excruciating.
Eric excused himself to go have a cigarette, and although I was sad to see him go, I couldn't have withstood the present social interaction (or lack thereof) much longer.
I don't know when I lost sight of Eric standing outside smoking, but when I next looked up, he was gone. He hadn't even said goodbye.
This morning during my water ritual, I started to come to terms with the finality of my last week here. I've only had to water the plants just a handful of times since I arrived, and at first I was grateful for a reason to get up, a purpose to my stay here, a contribution to The Desert Lily's livelihood. The hotter it gets, the drier it gets, kicking up a sandy dust that I breathe in all night and then cough out in the shower in the morning. It takes longer to water the trees and bushes that soak up the moisture immediately. The drizzles on the ground from my hose transport evaporate in minutes. As I consider my water footprint (something of which I became acutely aware on Jesse and Max's houseboat), I wonder whether it's really doing any good to water these plants, whether it's fair to have a garden in the desert. What I'm doing is not agriculture. I'm not harvesting flowers or fruit or roots or nectar here. I'm growing beauty, perhaps unnaturally, perhaps selfishly.
My mind goes back to thoughts that are nearly a year old now, of looking for a greater purpose to my existence - the entire reason I applied for Peace Corps in the first place. Now that I've had some time to accept my rejection from service, I still can't help but think I was meant to do more, to help more, to provide more, to contribute more. This trip - an egomaniacal exercise in creativity and selfish tourism - has only intensified those feelings.
I'd be OK with being so alone if I were a park ranger, or a student of the desert, or a cultivator of soil or soul or culture or love or life. But I'm living a life that's not my own out here, and my existence is just hanging in the ether, waiting to evaporate completely like the spilled water of every third morning, or collect somewhere onto something, into some kind of solid that someone can see, touch, smell, consume.
It's not like I have much of a purpose in New York. But the life I live there is mine, as unhappy as I may be with it. And although I'm terribly lonely in a city sea of millions of people, I know that there are a few that I have an affect on: who I make laugh, I make cry, and I inspire and motivate.
July 06, 2009
Hi Desert Conversations: Flying Solo
"Excuse me, would you mind taking a photo of me with all my friends?"
Almost as bad as "Excuse me, since you're by yourself, would you mind moving over to make room for me and all my friends?"
Almost as bad as "Excuse me, since you're by yourself, would you mind moving over to make room for me and all my friends?"
July 05, 2009
A Desert Minute
Three weeks into my trip, it's getting to be about the time that I need to figure out how long I'm going to stay in Joshua Tree, and when I'm going home. Although Carrie has been so generous to offer her place for me to stay for as long as I want, I know that I can't stay forever. I also know that I'm not terribly anxious to return to NYC.
As contemplative as it is here, I'm not sure how much longer I want to stay. I've gotten a lot out of this trip so far - inspiration, perspiration, solitude and awe - but the longer I'm here, the more I feel like I'm not accomplishing what I should be while I'm here.
As The Desert Lily Artist in Residence, I guess I feel like I need to come out of this trip with something concrete: a book, an essay, a column in a local paper, something. I had a few leads coming into this trip, but one by one, they've all dissipated. After a missed deadline at Sunset magazine, a disastrous meeting with the American Free Journal, and unreturned emails from the local cultural arts council and every other local print publication, my only remaining hope is to get published in The Sun Runner's annual Desert Writers Issue. I've submitted three articles for consideration. We'll see if they pick one. It's small but it sure is something.
I guess I thought by now that I would have made a friend or two, someone to meet for a drink or coffee or bowling or watch the sunset with. I've met plenty of people, but our encounters are fleeting though friendly, and sometimes they don't remember me the second time they see me. I've given my number and email address to at least three locals who expressed interest in my writing, but haven't heard from them since.
I guess I also thought that I would have gone on a date or two by now. But I'm either too old for the 23-year-old military boys or too young for the old divorced hippies, too straight for the lesbians and too girlish for the gay boys. The two young boys who were romantically interested in me took my number and never used it.
I always said that I'd be married if I lived anywhere outside of NYC. Now I know that's not true.
So in some ways, my life here is remarkably similar to my life in New York. I spend a lot of time alone, and am consoled by a good meal and a good glass of wine. I'm desperately fighting the inclination to go hang out at the Joshua Tree Saloon to meet people. I don't want to replicate my NYC rut while I'm here. If I do that, I might as well go home right now. The big difference is, I have a car here that helps me escape, stirred by the open road and singing to the radio. The Eagles, The Doors, Kelly Clarkson, The Pretenders, Fleetwood Mac, U2, Daughtry, Finger Eleven, The Hollies and Little Anthony and the Imperials have kept me company in the car and kept my voice strong and constant. When I'm feeling really low, I torture myself with Don Mclean, Gilbert O'Sullivan, Janis Ian, Chicago, Jefferson Starship, and Jim Croce.
A big part of me thinks I haven't given my life here a fair shake yet. Coming from the pace of a New York Minute, maybe I have to slow down to the Desert Minute, where a minute means a half hour and 15 minutes mean an hour. Maybe the people here don't have the same sense of urgency that I have, the same sense that I've had all my life: that my time is running out, and that I have to cram every last bit of life in as soon as possible before it's taken away from me. But something tells me I can't wait around for these Hi-Desert folks to catch up with me. My time here may be up soon.
Patience has never been one of my virtues.
Still, I've lived as best as I can as a local. I shop at the grocery stores and cook my own meals. I learned the back roads. I went to a baseball game. I get my nails done at the strip mall. I go to the movies and Del Taco and diners that no tourist would ever stop into. I watch the sun rise and set. And I live peacefully among the coyotes, cottontail, flies, lizards, doves and quail. I drink local wine and buy local produce and tip big wherever I go. And although I'm very attached to The Desert Lily itself, I'm still missing a connection with the rest of the town, the rest of the entire basin.
So what do I do now? Use my savings to buy an RV and keep travelling? With all the places I'd like to visit, will I ever find what I'm looking for? Will I ever stay long enough to really know?
And what is there waiting for me in New York? More solitude, air pollution, noise pollution, rude idiots with long acrylic nails at Duane Reade, guys who call me fat when I won't go out with them....? A life that's so fleeting, before I know it I'll be too old for anything?
A Day in the Life
Since leaving my job at the end of January, my weekdays in NYC have gone pretty much like this:
9:50 a.m. TV alarm turns on
9:55 a.m. Go to bathroom, turn on computer, assemble breakfast
10:00-10:54 a.m. eat breakfast while checking email and watching Guiding Light
10:55-11:00 a.m. work
11:00 a.m.-12:00 p.m. check email while watching The View
12-2:00 p.m. work, calls, grocery, fax, post office
2-3:00 p.m. lunch while watching The Bonnie Hunt Show
3-4:00 p.m. Ellen
4:00 p.m. go do something productive outside of the house
5:30 p.m. Happy Hour
8 or 9:00-11:35 p.m. mindless television
11:35 p.m.-1 a.m. flip back and forth between Letterman or Conan or Fallon and Sex and the City
1-1:30 a.m. try to fall asleep
No wonder I had to get the hell out.
Now that I'm living in the desert, every day is pretty much different. I read a lot more. I don't have access to television at all (not even broadcast) which means I am very choosey about what to watch online. The outdoors - the open road - has become my television, and instead of dreaming that I'm one of the Friends, I dream I'm in some new exotic place, with visions of the road streaming under me, trying to find my way. Trying to find my soul.
The geographic and mental adjustment has resulted in a schedule more like this:
5:30-6:30 a.m. Wake up with the sun glowing orange outside my window
6:30 a.m. Fill glass with fresh ice and filtered water
6:31 a.m. Put on work gloves, start dragging hoses around
6:32 a.m. Fill birdbath with water, dodge excited birds as they flock to it. Take photos of bunnies.
6:35 a.m. Start watering first round of plants
6:45 a.m. Breakfast
6:50 a.m. Switch hoses to next set of plants. Critique level of water flow and fidget with the spouts.
7:05 a.m. Switch hoses again. Accidentally scare off cottontails sipping from the collected water at the base of the plants.
7:10 a.m. Try to finish reading Eclipse, the third in the Twilight Saga, and hate myself for reading it at all.
7:20-8:00 a.m. More switching and reading and drinking water. Pulling cactus spines out of my fingers, shins, and pants. Sweating in the 80+ degree heat. Glad I have something productive to do. Try to coil hoses back up without dislodging too many decorative rocks or cacti.
8:00 a.m. Walk the short distance to the vacation rental up the hill, scoffing at the idea that I was supposed to use a golf cart to get up there. Turn on sprinklers.
8:05-8:10 a.m. Uncoil hoses, fiddle with spickets, switch
8:11 a.m. Spot a jackrabbit. Boy those things can hop.
8:12-8:25 a.m. Swat flies, read, water
8:30 a.m. Turn off sprinklers.
8:31-9:00 a.m. Hoses, water, prickly, swat, read, water, birds chirping, lizards scuttling, bees
9:01 a.m. Coil hoses, dirty pants, sweaty feet in sneakers
9:10 a.m. Consider nap, email instead
10:00 a.m. Consider lunch, nap instead
11:00 a.m. Consider more nap, shower instead
11:30 a.m. Drive off somewhere to look at stuff, take a hike, take pictures, see what there is to see, grab lunch, get gas
2 or 3 or 4 or 5 p.m. Water Canyon Coffee: work, read, write, bagel, coffee, calls, email, mohawk, chat, 90s alternative rock
5 or 6 or 7 p.m. Stater Bros, Walgreen's, Wal-Mart, fax, copy, postcard, post office
7-8:30 p.m. Set up post on table outside my door to eat dinner, get back online, write more, upload more photos, and watch the sun set. I don't actually watch the sun; I watch its orange glow reflected off the landscape that lies to the east.
9 p.m. Consider bed but watch Guiding Light online
10:30 or 11 or 11:30 p.m. Turn on LED candle and set in window sill. Make sure window is open and blinds are up. Turn off light and wait for my eyes to adjust. Stare out at the moonlight until I can't keep my lids open anymore.
9:50 a.m. TV alarm turns on
9:55 a.m. Go to bathroom, turn on computer, assemble breakfast
10:00-10:54 a.m. eat breakfast while checking email and watching Guiding Light
10:55-11:00 a.m. work
11:00 a.m.-12:00 p.m. check email while watching The View
12-2:00 p.m. work, calls, grocery, fax, post office
2-3:00 p.m. lunch while watching The Bonnie Hunt Show
3-4:00 p.m. Ellen
4:00 p.m. go do something productive outside of the house
5:30 p.m. Happy Hour
8 or 9:00-11:35 p.m. mindless television
11:35 p.m.-1 a.m. flip back and forth between Letterman or Conan or Fallon and Sex and the City
1-1:30 a.m. try to fall asleep
No wonder I had to get the hell out.
Now that I'm living in the desert, every day is pretty much different. I read a lot more. I don't have access to television at all (not even broadcast) which means I am very choosey about what to watch online. The outdoors - the open road - has become my television, and instead of dreaming that I'm one of the Friends, I dream I'm in some new exotic place, with visions of the road streaming under me, trying to find my way. Trying to find my soul.
The geographic and mental adjustment has resulted in a schedule more like this:
5:30-6:30 a.m. Wake up with the sun glowing orange outside my window
6:30 a.m. Fill glass with fresh ice and filtered water
6:31 a.m. Put on work gloves, start dragging hoses around
6:32 a.m. Fill birdbath with water, dodge excited birds as they flock to it. Take photos of bunnies.
6:35 a.m. Start watering first round of plants
6:45 a.m. Breakfast
6:50 a.m. Switch hoses to next set of plants. Critique level of water flow and fidget with the spouts.
7:05 a.m. Switch hoses again. Accidentally scare off cottontails sipping from the collected water at the base of the plants.
7:10 a.m. Try to finish reading Eclipse, the third in the Twilight Saga, and hate myself for reading it at all.
7:20-8:00 a.m. More switching and reading and drinking water. Pulling cactus spines out of my fingers, shins, and pants. Sweating in the 80+ degree heat. Glad I have something productive to do. Try to coil hoses back up without dislodging too many decorative rocks or cacti.
8:00 a.m. Walk the short distance to the vacation rental up the hill, scoffing at the idea that I was supposed to use a golf cart to get up there. Turn on sprinklers.
8:05-8:10 a.m. Uncoil hoses, fiddle with spickets, switch
8:11 a.m. Spot a jackrabbit. Boy those things can hop.
8:12-8:25 a.m. Swat flies, read, water
8:30 a.m. Turn off sprinklers.
8:31-9:00 a.m. Hoses, water, prickly, swat, read, water, birds chirping, lizards scuttling, bees
9:01 a.m. Coil hoses, dirty pants, sweaty feet in sneakers
9:10 a.m. Consider nap, email instead
10:00 a.m. Consider lunch, nap instead
11:00 a.m. Consider more nap, shower instead
11:30 a.m. Drive off somewhere to look at stuff, take a hike, take pictures, see what there is to see, grab lunch, get gas
2 or 3 or 4 or 5 p.m. Water Canyon Coffee: work, read, write, bagel, coffee, calls, email, mohawk, chat, 90s alternative rock
5 or 6 or 7 p.m. Stater Bros, Walgreen's, Wal-Mart, fax, copy, postcard, post office
7-8:30 p.m. Set up post on table outside my door to eat dinner, get back online, write more, upload more photos, and watch the sun set. I don't actually watch the sun; I watch its orange glow reflected off the landscape that lies to the east.
9 p.m. Consider bed but watch Guiding Light online
10:30 or 11 or 11:30 p.m. Turn on LED candle and set in window sill. Make sure window is open and blinds are up. Turn off light and wait for my eyes to adjust. Stare out at the moonlight until I can't keep my lids open anymore.
July 04, 2009
Photo Essay: Saturday In the (Ball)Park...
...I think it was the Fourth of July....
To celebrate Independence Day during perhaps the most independent period of my life, I went down desert for a good ol' American baseball game (Palm Springs' summer collegiate league team, the Power).
It was a great small-town experience, replete with folksy time-filling promos like a pie-eating contest, a snowball contest, and Rocky, their dancing mascot.
After the sun went down, it was still so hot that they kept the misters on, which really cooled things off.
There was nearly an hour after the game ended until the fireworks were going to begin, and they opened the doors to the general public to see the spectacle for free. I left my seat in the bleachers and positioned myself right on the field.
And took my flip-flops off for the fireworks.
The fireworks were really good - directly overhead, in the big dark night sky, sprinkling color and light into my eyes as I smiled all my cares away... It was nice to not be wandering the streets of New York, searching for a good vantage point, standing in the rain, fighting off drunk people. Tonight, I had a real hometown celebration, really far from home.
To celebrate Independence Day during perhaps the most independent period of my life, I went down desert for a good ol' American baseball game (Palm Springs' summer collegiate league team, the Power).
It was a great small-town experience, replete with folksy time-filling promos like a pie-eating contest, a snowball contest, and Rocky, their dancing mascot.
After the sun went down, it was still so hot that they kept the misters on, which really cooled things off.
There was nearly an hour after the game ended until the fireworks were going to begin, and they opened the doors to the general public to see the spectacle for free. I left my seat in the bleachers and positioned myself right on the field.
And took my flip-flops off for the fireworks.
The fireworks were really good - directly overhead, in the big dark night sky, sprinkling color and light into my eyes as I smiled all my cares away... It was nice to not be wandering the streets of New York, searching for a good vantage point, standing in the rain, fighting off drunk people. Tonight, I had a real hometown celebration, really far from home.
I Have Complete Control of the Vehicle...
In my attempts to completely explore the area around Joshua Tree, I started researching what there was to do in Barstow, CA. I knew that it was a major stop along Historic Route 66, but I was looking for something beyond a museum or two and a greasy meal.
It's an interesting area because it's still the Hi-Desert, but as a major pitstop between LA and Las Vegas, it's also been built up as quite a town. Two major highways - I-15 and I-40, which split off and run parallel on either side of Mojave National Preserve - converge there, leaving two smaller and now-defunct freeways - Old Highway 58 and Route 66 - in their wake. There is a sense of continuous building up and tearing down, so much so that their "Old Town" probably only dates back to the 1950s.
Still, being the desert, it's surrounded by mountains and canyons and dry lakes. One of the most rewarding experiences of my entire trip thus far - since I first came to California - was my visit to Rainbow Basin, a natural attraction less than 10 miles north of Barstow.
On an early morning, unshowered goose chase down Ft. Irwin Road which led to a dead end, I finally found Rainbow Basin on Irwin Road going towards Fort Irwin.
This is one of the weird little natural wonders that the Bureau of Land Management oversees - which I think just means providing information for potential visitors and installing signs. You never see anyone from the BLM at any of the sites, which are usually far more remote than national, state or regional parks. And sometimes - as in the case of Harper Dry Lake - their interpretive signs along the trail have been dismantled and no one noticed. Or, perhaps they were never installed at all, leaving empty wooden and metal posts in the ground with nothing to display?
Still, Rainbow Basin is so gratifying. There's not much you can do there: you have to go to a nearby campground to stay overnight, and you can't picnic or hike or even view wildlife. The main attraction here is vehicular tourism: a four-mile one way loop dirt road around the batholith, which gives you views of the rainbow-colored striated rocks that rise up around you. Stripes of green and red rise out of the rocks in stunning patterns, still subtle and blending in with the desert palette, but remarkable nevertheless.
The best part is how harrowing the drive is. I'd gotten such a little thrill out of the narrow rock passageway leading up to Palm Canyon, but this was a thousand - no, a million! - times more thrilling.
No wonder this road was one-way: every twist and turn required speeds of less than 20 mph, and vehicles shorter than 25 ft long. It dips and rises, sloping sideways and bumping you along like the chug-chug-chug of a rollercoaster. I felt a similar impending doom, and the same rational relief that I was safely strapped in and nothing would really harm me. Even an impact with the surrounding rocks would only be 5 mph strong.
As I drove along, the twists got narrower, drawing squeals of delight out of me and a low, steady, "Eeeeeeee...." as I rounded every bend.
I was grinning, scared, skillful, elated, and anticipating all at once. I was both in control and out of control. The challenge was not unmanageable. It was just right.
In a way, Rainbow Basin felt like a condensed, compressed version of this entire trip. At one moment nervewracking, at another it was fun, new, and exciting. With a narrow focus, you could say that all I was doing was driving through some rocks. But I can't stop thinking that there was something bigger happening as I emerged onto the Service Road and continued to giggle nervously, ready now to start my day.
It's an interesting area because it's still the Hi-Desert, but as a major pitstop between LA and Las Vegas, it's also been built up as quite a town. Two major highways - I-15 and I-40, which split off and run parallel on either side of Mojave National Preserve - converge there, leaving two smaller and now-defunct freeways - Old Highway 58 and Route 66 - in their wake. There is a sense of continuous building up and tearing down, so much so that their "Old Town" probably only dates back to the 1950s.
Still, being the desert, it's surrounded by mountains and canyons and dry lakes. One of the most rewarding experiences of my entire trip thus far - since I first came to California - was my visit to Rainbow Basin, a natural attraction less than 10 miles north of Barstow.
On an early morning, unshowered goose chase down Ft. Irwin Road which led to a dead end, I finally found Rainbow Basin on Irwin Road going towards Fort Irwin.
This is one of the weird little natural wonders that the Bureau of Land Management oversees - which I think just means providing information for potential visitors and installing signs. You never see anyone from the BLM at any of the sites, which are usually far more remote than national, state or regional parks. And sometimes - as in the case of Harper Dry Lake - their interpretive signs along the trail have been dismantled and no one noticed. Or, perhaps they were never installed at all, leaving empty wooden and metal posts in the ground with nothing to display?
Still, Rainbow Basin is so gratifying. There's not much you can do there: you have to go to a nearby campground to stay overnight, and you can't picnic or hike or even view wildlife. The main attraction here is vehicular tourism: a four-mile one way loop dirt road around the batholith, which gives you views of the rainbow-colored striated rocks that rise up around you. Stripes of green and red rise out of the rocks in stunning patterns, still subtle and blending in with the desert palette, but remarkable nevertheless.
The best part is how harrowing the drive is. I'd gotten such a little thrill out of the narrow rock passageway leading up to Palm Canyon, but this was a thousand - no, a million! - times more thrilling.
No wonder this road was one-way: every twist and turn required speeds of less than 20 mph, and vehicles shorter than 25 ft long. It dips and rises, sloping sideways and bumping you along like the chug-chug-chug of a rollercoaster. I felt a similar impending doom, and the same rational relief that I was safely strapped in and nothing would really harm me. Even an impact with the surrounding rocks would only be 5 mph strong.
As I drove along, the twists got narrower, drawing squeals of delight out of me and a low, steady, "Eeeeeeee...." as I rounded every bend.
I was grinning, scared, skillful, elated, and anticipating all at once. I was both in control and out of control. The challenge was not unmanageable. It was just right.
In a way, Rainbow Basin felt like a condensed, compressed version of this entire trip. At one moment nervewracking, at another it was fun, new, and exciting. With a narrow focus, you could say that all I was doing was driving through some rocks. But I can't stop thinking that there was something bigger happening as I emerged onto the Service Road and continued to giggle nervously, ready now to start my day.
Hi Desert Conversations: At the Gas Station
"Yo, excuse me miss, you like perfume?"
I was pumping my gas and hadn't washed my hair for days. I looked at the brown-skinned man with the tiny mustache at the next pump over and said, "Uh, no."
He persisted. "Really? You don't like perfume? You don't wear it at all?"
"No." I lied.
"Because I got some really great deals from Vegas-"
I interrupted, "No thanks."
"Well, what about your husband? Because I got-"
"Yeah, no."
With that, he turned up his bass and sped off. I scraped something off my forehead and replaced the cap back on my gas tank.
I was pumping my gas and hadn't washed my hair for days. I looked at the brown-skinned man with the tiny mustache at the next pump over and said, "Uh, no."
He persisted. "Really? You don't like perfume? You don't wear it at all?"
"No." I lied.
"Because I got some really great deals from Vegas-"
I interrupted, "No thanks."
"Well, what about your husband? Because I got-"
"Yeah, no."
With that, he turned up his bass and sped off. I scraped something off my forehead and replaced the cap back on my gas tank.
July 03, 2009
Hi Desert Conversations: Counter Culture
Whenever I go out alone, usually sitting at a diner counter somewhere, I'm certain to have some version of this conversation with a stranger - usually an older man, could be 40, could be 60.
Man: "So where are you coming from?"
Me: "I'm staying in Joshua Tree..."
Man: "Oh yeah? You live over there?'
Me: "Well, no...I'm staying there for a while."
Man: "So where are you from then?"
Me:"New York?"
Man: "Well, you're a long ways off from New York out here."
Me: "Yeah, that's kind of the point."
He then proceeds to tell me about his coin collection, or his house by a man-made lake, or his other career as a stand-up comic, or his son who lives in Manhattan too but he hasn't gone to visit yet.
Maybe he's from San Diego or Detroit or Westchester or Victorville, but he's awfully curious to talk to me.
Today the coin collector gave me a 1917 penny after showing me a sample of his collection.
Man: "So where are you coming from?"
Me: "I'm staying in Joshua Tree..."
Man: "Oh yeah? You live over there?'
Me: "Well, no...I'm staying there for a while."
Man: "So where are you from then?"
Me:
Man: "Well, you're a long ways off from New York out here."
Me: "Yeah, that's kind of the point."
He then proceeds to tell me about his coin collection, or his house by a man-made lake, or his other career as a stand-up comic, or his son who lives in Manhattan too but he hasn't gone to visit yet.
Maybe he's from San Diego or Detroit or Westchester or Victorville, but he's awfully curious to talk to me.
Today the coin collector gave me a 1917 penny after showing me a sample of his collection.
July 02, 2009
A Last Resort
When I moved to New York City, all of my friends back home told me to be careful. Tim taught me to hold my key in my fist as I walked down the street, so I could use it as a knife if someone attacked me. Still, my wallet was stolen twice, I was punched on the subway, and I was sent to the emergency room with abdominal pains, all pretty much within the first couple of years in the city.
Not to mention the guys that were rough with me and all the names I've been called by the guys I've rejected. And the job that I was forced to leave.
Out here in the California desert, I haven't succumbed to many of the potential perils that face me here. Sure, I skinned my knee on the Amboy Crater. I scratched my leg on a rock during a hike in Joshua Tree. I've gotten a little sunburned. But no rattlesnakes have bitten me, no lightning has struck me and boiled my sap, no floods have washed me away, no winds have blown me away. All in all, I've gotten off pretty easy.
I thought today would be the end of that.
Today I drove back up to Mojave National Preserve to go deeper into the park than I had when I toured Mitchell Caverns and meandered towards Kelso Dunes. I stopped into Kelso Depot to check out the newly-restored railroad station, and asked the ranger for advice about what else to see. She gave me explicit instructions as to how to get to the Cima cinder cones (like the Amboy Crater) and the hiking trail to the lava tube, assuring me that my 2WD car and I by myself would be fine if we followed her instructions exactly.
Unfortunately, she didn't warn me about the parking area.
I drove up to and hiked the site without a hitch. I descended the stairs into the lava tube, looked at the dark crawl space, and opted not to do the "crab walk" that the ranger recommended and instead turn around and leave. When I got back to my car, really burning from the short volcanic walk, I shifted into reverse. And hit something. And couldn't move.
I hopped out of the car and inspected a pile of rocks that I had rumbled into. It didn't look so bad so I cleared most of them away and tried to drive again. My wheels spun on their own, spinning the loose dirt below into a blinding funnel cloud on the right side of my car. This couldn't be good.
I got back out and cleared more rocks. I tried using one of them to shovel away some of the sand that had built up around my front-right wheel. When that proved to be ineffectual, I used my manicured hands.
And I tried again. Reverse. Drive. Nothing made the car move.
I started to think about every TV show and every movie I'd seen where someone gets stuck in mud or snow. I put the car in Neutral and tried pushing it forward, pushing it backward. You hear these stories about an adrenaline rush giving a mother enough strength to lift a car off her child. I don't think it's true. I was pretty panicked and I couldn't budge the damn machine.
And then I did the worst thing you could possibly do: I gunned it.
Golden brown dirt sprayed all over my windshield, into the wiper gutter, onto the roof, and down the driver's side window.
But nothing moved other than the dirt.
I looked at the wheel and realized I'd burrowed so far into the dirt that I'd hit its compacted under layer, halfway to rock, immoveable by my delicate city hands. I started to cry.
I checked my cell phone: no signal.
I looked around and listened: no cars.
It was at least six miles back to the main road. I was certain to expire in that heat - even before noon - if I tried to walk it.
I cried some more and gasped out loud, "What am I going to do?"
Dirty hands on hips left light brown prints on my light blue t-shirt.
If I had been with someone, I probably would have been the calm one, the one making all the suggestions, the one saying we were going to be all right. But alone, I didn't feel all right.
The National Parks Service tells you all the time about how many people die out in the desert, but I was determined not to be one of those people. I got back in the car, whose interior was now smattered with brown handprints and a good all-over dusting. I turned the car on once again. As a last resort, I turned the wheel all the way in the other direction. And I felt something move.
Drunk with the feeling of rescue, I shifted into Reverse and barrelled backwards, over one of the rocks I couldn't remove. I was sobbing by now.
I left the dirt covering my forearms, hands and face, buried underneath my nails, until I could return down the dirt road to the main road - and therefore, in my mind, to safety. Desperation became relief. Tragedy faded into minor mishap, a close call.
It seems so silly now that something so innocuous and unassuming as a pile of volcanic rock could threaten me so. But sometimes it's those small obstacles in your blind spot that get you the worst.
Lucky for me, I kept trying. I didn't give up and wait in my car to be discovered, or walk away from it in hopes of finding help, surely dying of exposure in either scenario. I used up every last resort idea I had until something worked, because I believed that something would work.
I wish now I'd thought to take a photo of that buried wheel so I could remember it, analyze it, study it for the next time I get stuck in something. I guess if that happens, I'll just have to keep trying until something works.
For more photos of Mojave National Preserve, click here.
Not to mention the guys that were rough with me and all the names I've been called by the guys I've rejected. And the job that I was forced to leave.
Out here in the California desert, I haven't succumbed to many of the potential perils that face me here. Sure, I skinned my knee on the Amboy Crater. I scratched my leg on a rock during a hike in Joshua Tree. I've gotten a little sunburned. But no rattlesnakes have bitten me, no lightning has struck me and boiled my sap, no floods have washed me away, no winds have blown me away. All in all, I've gotten off pretty easy.
I thought today would be the end of that.
Today I drove back up to Mojave National Preserve to go deeper into the park than I had when I toured Mitchell Caverns and meandered towards Kelso Dunes. I stopped into Kelso Depot to check out the newly-restored railroad station, and asked the ranger for advice about what else to see. She gave me explicit instructions as to how to get to the Cima cinder cones (like the Amboy Crater) and the hiking trail to the lava tube, assuring me that my 2WD car and I by myself would be fine if we followed her instructions exactly.
Unfortunately, she didn't warn me about the parking area.
I drove up to and hiked the site without a hitch. I descended the stairs into the lava tube, looked at the dark crawl space, and opted not to do the "crab walk" that the ranger recommended and instead turn around and leave. When I got back to my car, really burning from the short volcanic walk, I shifted into reverse. And hit something. And couldn't move.
I hopped out of the car and inspected a pile of rocks that I had rumbled into. It didn't look so bad so I cleared most of them away and tried to drive again. My wheels spun on their own, spinning the loose dirt below into a blinding funnel cloud on the right side of my car. This couldn't be good.
I got back out and cleared more rocks. I tried using one of them to shovel away some of the sand that had built up around my front-right wheel. When that proved to be ineffectual, I used my manicured hands.
And I tried again. Reverse. Drive. Nothing made the car move.
I started to think about every TV show and every movie I'd seen where someone gets stuck in mud or snow. I put the car in Neutral and tried pushing it forward, pushing it backward. You hear these stories about an adrenaline rush giving a mother enough strength to lift a car off her child. I don't think it's true. I was pretty panicked and I couldn't budge the damn machine.
And then I did the worst thing you could possibly do: I gunned it.
Golden brown dirt sprayed all over my windshield, into the wiper gutter, onto the roof, and down the driver's side window.
But nothing moved other than the dirt.
I looked at the wheel and realized I'd burrowed so far into the dirt that I'd hit its compacted under layer, halfway to rock, immoveable by my delicate city hands. I started to cry.
I checked my cell phone: no signal.
I looked around and listened: no cars.
It was at least six miles back to the main road. I was certain to expire in that heat - even before noon - if I tried to walk it.
I cried some more and gasped out loud, "What am I going to do?"
Dirty hands on hips left light brown prints on my light blue t-shirt.
If I had been with someone, I probably would have been the calm one, the one making all the suggestions, the one saying we were going to be all right. But alone, I didn't feel all right.
The National Parks Service tells you all the time about how many people die out in the desert, but I was determined not to be one of those people. I got back in the car, whose interior was now smattered with brown handprints and a good all-over dusting. I turned the car on once again. As a last resort, I turned the wheel all the way in the other direction. And I felt something move.
Drunk with the feeling of rescue, I shifted into Reverse and barrelled backwards, over one of the rocks I couldn't remove. I was sobbing by now.
I left the dirt covering my forearms, hands and face, buried underneath my nails, until I could return down the dirt road to the main road - and therefore, in my mind, to safety. Desperation became relief. Tragedy faded into minor mishap, a close call.
It seems so silly now that something so innocuous and unassuming as a pile of volcanic rock could threaten me so. But sometimes it's those small obstacles in your blind spot that get you the worst.
Lucky for me, I kept trying. I didn't give up and wait in my car to be discovered, or walk away from it in hopes of finding help, surely dying of exposure in either scenario. I used up every last resort idea I had until something worked, because I believed that something would work.
I wish now I'd thought to take a photo of that buried wheel so I could remember it, analyze it, study it for the next time I get stuck in something. I guess if that happens, I'll just have to keep trying until something works.
For more photos of Mojave National Preserve, click here.
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