Update

Just updated Harris Ranch, which picks up the narrative after the Tehachapi post.

Tehachapi to Bakersfield

The drive from Tehachapi to the Bakersfield Flying J is an easy 56 miles.  By Tehachapi you are out of the true desert, and shortly winding through the Tehachapi Mountains which are covered in oak and grassland.  This is lovely scenery.  It is only the last day of Spring and already the grass in these hills has dried, yet it is not a dead brown. The hills are a bright, wonderful shade of gold.  Which must explain why there is a community nearby called Golden Hills.  This landscape is so different from the lush green of the Midwest or the rich greengrass of Wyoming.  This grass must make haste with the short wet season, flushing out in green with the rains of late winter and very early spring, heading out and drying long before summer begins.  But it is no less beautiful and it tugs at my heart, because although I am still nearly 300 miles from home, this is a landscape I've known all my life.  It is not unlike what the hills of Yerba Buena, later to be called San Francisco, must have looked like before they were transformed by steam shovel into the densely built city where I was born.  These rolling, golden hills dotted with oak trees are found in many places in central California, and I’ve known and loved them all my life.

These are particularly spectacular examples of this kind of landscape, and that alone makes them worth seeing, but when you add in the trains you get a picture that is almost too perfect to be believed.  Tehachapi’s trains are beloved by rail fans, and there are few more picturesque places to trainspot.  As I drove along, to my left a long train wound among the hills.  I actually watched this train rolling through two tunnels at the same time.  There might possibly have even been a third tunnel, I couldn’t tell.  But I can promise you that parts of the train were visible on both sides of one tunnel while rolling out of a second tunnel.  It was so perfect it looked like an intricately designed model train display come to life.  If you love (or even just like) trains, part of a day hanging in and around Tehachapi and the Tehachapi Mountains will reward you with many fantastic vistas of trains in striking scenery.  It’s a great chance for photographers with a little skill.  Which I’m afraid I don’t have much of, and anyway I was driving, so there was no chance for me to catch that perfect picture for you, the one of the long train winding its way around the shoulders of the mountains and in and out of tunnels.

I grabbed this pic from here, which is a good read about Highway 58, a very scenic road, by the way, with awesome views of the Mojave Desert scenery, my beloved Joshua Trees, and the Tehachapis.

 

Before long I was descending into California’s great Central Valley.  This is the breadbasket of the state, and in fact grows food that supplies much of the country.  It is rich agricultural land, with a mild climate that allows multiple crops a year.  Irrigation and flood control have transformed the historical feast or famine cycle of flood and dry into an evenly watered farmland that produces huge amounts of food crops.  Bakersfield has oil wells, and is known for that “Bakersfield sound,” made famous by Buck Owens and Merle Haggard.  Some views as you drive through Bakersfield look arid and dry, with pump jacks nodding in the flat, white distance.  But other angles let you see the abundant farmland that surrounds the city.  Bakersfield is a bit of a rough and scruffy town, but like a lot of other places that have grown up with time, new development has slapped a bit of a genteel topcoat onto much of it.

I wasn’t spending much time in Bakersfield.  A quick stop at the Flying J to get a quart of oil for Goose (she only used one and a half quarts in more than five thousand miles of hard driving!!!), a chance to walk around a little, fix a fresh cold drink and use the facilities, and I was on my way.  It was odd to think about the last time I had been at that Flying J.  It had been less than six months ago, coming home from Slab City with friends just after New Year’s.  I was numb with both grief and wonder.  Wonder at the great gift of healing and love I’d been given, and grief at the loss of an extraordinary human being who had shared his last days and hours of life with me.  That had been winter, with the damp and chill so bleak after the hard, dry, brightness of Slab City.  Now it was summer, and the sun was hot, the air full of birdsong even over the rumbling of the trucks idling, the smell of growing things mixed with diesel exhaust.  It was a different season, and I was close to having accomplished a great task and come through a great adventure.  But I was not home yet.  I was afraid of getting cocky and jinxing the whole thing with overconfidence, so I tried to treat these last miles as just another part of the drive.

I pulled out onto the road, a short jog north on 99, a westward cutover on 46, and then north on 5.  Next stop, Harris Ranch.

Update

Hey Peeps, I updated the post "Joshua Trees!" with more text and one extra picture.  It picks up the narrative after the Kingman to Barstow episode.

Kingman to Barstow: Dark Night Of The Soul

“Yeah one thing about this wild, wild country
It takes a strong, strong
It breaks a strong, strong mind
And anything less, anything less
Makes me feel like I'm wasting my time”

                            - Drover, Bill Callahan

If you’ll recall, I tried and failed to get coffee at the McD’s in the Kingman Walmart, and paused to take a shot of the vintage cop car parked in the lot.  My first mistake was not taking the time to make myself a big cup of coffee.  Actually, my first mistake was not taking time to rest more, never mind the no-camping signs.  But I had 205 miles to drive to Barstow, I knew I wouldn’t be going very fast, and I needed to get going while the cool of night lasted.  So I struck out into the moonlit desert night, leaving Kingman around 12:30am.

At first it was ok.  The wide desert of western Arizona was open and flat around me, the waxing moon a bulbous lump that gave quite a lot of light.  I made good time to Needles, the air coming in the window pleasantly cool without being the least bit cold.  I was back in California at last, my home state, and only about 500 miles to go to home.  And then the road began to climb.  The moon was touching the hills with a pale light and a slice of sky I could see out my side window was flung with stars.  The climb continued, and I let Goose take it at about 45.  But it didn’t end.  There was no break, no level spot, no downhill section to relieve that steady climb.  It went on and on.  Just when it seemed it must surely end, it didn’t.  A truck lane opened up on the right, and I got into it.  The climb continued, without the slightest dip or pause.  I let Goose down to 40, then 35.  Trucks passed me, not going very fast themselves, but still rumbling past me.  The moon was dipping lower and lower, getting to be a deeper yellow with every passing minute, until at last it looked like very old parchment with a light shining through it, a deep, smoky amber.  The climb continued, and my eyes were getting bleary, light from oncoming traffic striking the windshield hit streaks I hadn’t cleaned off very well at the last stop and left prismatic blooms on my field of vision.  Light from the reflectors on the roadway made feathery spikes rising up from the road like mist.  I blinked and rubbed my eyes, but it didn’t help.

The climb went on, and I began to feel like I was in a bad dream.  The shoulders of the mountains rose around us, only dimly visible in the light of the lowering moon.  The landscape was felt more than seen, and it felt wild and terribly lonely and inhospitable.  This was South Pass, a long, difficult climb to an elevation of 2,630 feet, which seemed far too low for that terrible climb.  It was because I was taking it so slow that it seemed to take so long, and because I had quickly run through my reserves of energy and wakefulness.  I had not gotten sufficient rest to tackle this long drive in the dark, but it was too late to reconsider now.  I had passed my last stopping opportunities, and even if I had stopped to rest, I would only have had to deal with the crushing heat when day came (the daytime temperature at Needles was around 106).  And so I drove on.

The climb finally ended, and at first it was a great relief.   The road angled down into the Ward Valley, but I only know the name because I’ve since looked it up.  In the moment I simply knew that the awful climb had ended.  But another kind of torture was beginning, because now my eyes were refusing to focus very well, and I desperately wanted to lay my head down and sleep.  There was no stopping place.  There was an exit sign for Water Road, but it was just another hopeless path into an empty wilderness.  There was no sign of human habitation but the road, and my only company was the sinking moon and the trucks thundering by.  The road began to climb again, this time to the Mountain Springs Summit at 2,770 feet.  This climb wasn’t so bad, since most of the elevation had been retained from the original climb, but there was another truck lane on the right and I got into it.

I saw the sign for Highway 66 and Amboy and Palm Springs.  I’ve been to Amboy, a ghost town relic from the days when the original Route 66 was the major route crossing the Mojave.  It has a place called Roy’s Café which is a must see if you are at all interested in this area, a living relic from the time before Highway 40 took over and diverted most of the traffic.  But Amboy was not on my route, and would offer no comfort now anyway, so late at night, and thinking of it, itself a lonely, desolate place, only made me feel lonelier.  The big rigs became fewer, the road curved among dark hills, and at last the moon gave up and slipped down behind the brow of the mountain, looking for a short while like a funny old man with a cone shaped head just peeking over the edge of the hill.  Then it was gone and I was alone.  The darkness pressed in, the road winding ahead narrowly in my headlights.  I so desperately wanted to stop.

I saw a sign for a rest stop some miles ahead.  That was it.  My salvation!  I didn’t care if I wasn’t done with the trek across the Mojave.  I absolutely had to close my eyes.  Now I had a hope of doing that, I just had to make it some 20 or so miles until that point.  I hung on grimly, through a dreamlike landscape that had become surreal and endless, without a single light or building or any other human presence in the lengthening gaps between thundering trucks.  Finally there was a sign that the rest stop was just a mile ahead.  I slowed and took the ramp, anticipation of relief giving me a moment of wakefulness.  I took the fork for cars, not trucks.  The truck side seemed full up.  I couldn’t swear that every spot was taken, but it seemed so.  And now I was rolling slowly through the car side, looking for anywhere I could stop.  There might have been a place I could have wedged in, but I kept rolling in search of a legitimate spot.  And then I was at the exit which led back onto the highway and there was no way to loop back around, no way to try for another chance, I was back on the highway before I even knew exactly what had happened, passing one last van that had squeezed itself into a slim space along the exit ramp because there was no other room.

It was like a terrible, cruel joke.  I had been promising myself sleep if only I could make it a few more miles.  To be denied like that was the worst kind of cruelty.  I could have wept, but it wouldn’t have helped, so I kept driving.  Shapes darted across the road, shapes I felt fairly certain weren’t there.  Things loomed up by the side of the road that probably weren’t there either.  I took deep breaths and bit my lip hard to try and wake myself, I took sips of a cold drink I had, but nothing really helped much.

I have tried, in my driving career, to not drive under such conditions, and I’ve been fairly successful.  There have only been one or two other times when I was nearly this tired and yet kept driving for any length of time.  But this was the worst.  There wasn’t any place to pull over, not even a wide spot in the road.  I had to keep going, and so I did.  When I saw another sign for a rest stop, my spirits lifted.  This time for sure, I thought to myself.

I exited at the ramp and very slowly pulled through, but it was the same all over again.  No room at the inn.  Again, I might have found a little spot if I’d been in better shape, sharper and able to make quicker decisions, but once again there was no second chance and no real room for me.  I wasn’t the only one desperate for sleep and rest, it seemed.  Big rigs were stacked up and jammed into whatever room was available, even on the ramp, and the car side had no space big enough for me with the trailer.  For the second time I was being shunted back onto the road.

But this time, something different happened.  I got angry.  What the fuck?  How was this fair?  Why weren’t there more spaces, and why hadn’t those thoughtless bastards left enough room for me by aligning themselves together a little better?  I was filled with a towering rage, and with that rage came a fresh wave of energy.  Suddenly I wasn’t sleepy anymore, I was very pissed off.  I sped up, pushing Goose up toward 55 from the 40 and 45 I’d been going.  Fine!  Just fine!  I was going to go all the way to Barstow, and then, fuck all, I was going to sleep.

The pain abated some, my vision cleared, I saw no more mysterious shapes in the dark.  Before much longer the road had descended out of the mountains (the Piute Mountains it seems, and may I never drive through them in the dark again).  To my right a cool white light appeared in the sky.  I wondered if it was the lights of a town over the ridge, but when the light kept growing and began to take on a rosy tint, I knew it was the dawn coming.  I felt I was racing the coming day, because when the sun came up, if I was still in the desert, I’d have no chance to sleep.  I pushed on, and at last saw the lights of a town ahead, the remaining curves of the foothills becoming clearer in the growing light.  I made better time, and at last I was entering Barstow, and the GPS was telling me to take the exit, and I was pulling in to the TA I’d selected months ago as my stopping point.  Ample parking spaces greeted me, and I pulled in at the end of a row, and shut off the engine.  Morning had come, the first yellow light of the sun just moments away from cresting the top of the horizon.  It was just after 5:00am.  Could I have been driving for five hours?

I hurriedly took what I needed into the trailer, closed and locked the door behind me, drew the curtains and put things back together from where they’d been tossed about from the bouncing of the road, kicked off my shoes, and lay down.  I could have wished for a little more seclusion, and even more, a few hours of darkness.  But I closed my eyes at last and slept.

Lazy Day

I've spent almost the entire day sleeping.  My wonderful boss let me have one more day off (he probably knew I wouldn't be good for much at work anyway) and told me to get some rest.  I finally got up to go out with family for a meal--not at a truck stop!  Gave them the daylight tour of KD.  They had a brief tour last night when I got home, but it was dark and the priority was to get critical stuff brought inside and then sleep.  It feels a bit odd to not be driving and blogging, but after eighteen days on the road, I welcome the break.

I will try to update some older posts that I never got to and tell you about the last parts of the drive home tomorrow.

Every time a journey ends . . .

. . . A Shasta gets its wings.

Pulled in at 11:59pm.  Thanks for riding along.  I will post and update more, but first, kitties, then sleep.  Love you all.

Harris Ranch

150 miles to home.  Harris Ranch at sunset.

 

 

Update:  Harris Ranch is one of those traveler's oases that offer respite in what is essentially the middle of nowhere (though it is certainly not as remote as some places I’ve been on this trip).  The address is listed as Coalinga, but the property is well outside of the town proper, about 13 miles away by road.  Coalinga itself is a small town with a bunch of interesting facts attached to it, like the etymology of its name, which evolved from the Southern Pacific Railroad’s designation of the spot as “Coaling Station A,” from which the word Coalinga was coined.  If you aren’t from around here, you might be interested to know that the first “a” is pronounced, so that it goes CO-ah-LING-ah, emphasis on the third syllable, and said with a hard “g”.  Who knows how these things get decided.   Probably some out of towner took a stab at saying the word out loud and it stuck.

The legendary California bandit Joaquin Murrietta  had his hideout nearby, where he was killed.  The town is an interesting footnote in the history of reverse osmosis systems for drinking water.  The local water was so bad that everybody had three taps, hot, cold, and potable, for the drinking water that had to be trucked in until they pioneered one of the first practical large-scale uses of reverse osmosis to get the water decently drinkable in the sixties.  There are other interesting things about this little place that might make it worth a visit, but I didn’t go into town.  I just pulled off Highway 5 to the Shell station that serves as the fueling point for the travel center part of Harris Ranch.

Harris Ranch is supposedly the biggest producer of beef in the state.  It is astonishing how much meat flows out of this place.  They do it all, from feedlot to slaughterhouse to neatly packaged parcels sold to In-N-Out Burgers and many grocery stores.  They grow crops there too, and raise Thoroughbreds.  In the seventies a restaurant was opened, and it grew because of the demand from travelers on busy Highway 5.  A fancy hotel was added in the eighties, and now there is the hotel, a substantial gift shop, the gas station with convenience store (that also has a few gifty items), car wash, and the restaurant.

I overnighted in the lot last year on my way south, and had breakfast at the restaurant.  As you might expect, the menu features beef.  It was good, I thought the price was reasonable if not cheap, and the service was excellent.  The handsome restaurant has a great western-themed décor.



I took pictures of an enormous painting that I fell in love with, but it would have required a huge house to showcase it.

The gift shop was nice, with knick-knacks, stuffed cows, housewares, and a nice selection of thoughtful toys that impressed me.  It was Christmas at the time, and they had a huge, lighted gingerbread house and many beautifully decorated Christmas trees.

In some ways Harris Ranch reminds me of Little America, but it is not quite as elaborate in terms of number of guest-oriented amenities.   Harris Ranch is a more diverse operation and not as entirely focused on being a travel stop as Little America is.  This is a view of the hacienda-style hotel.  It's actually much fancier than this limited view shows.

I’m not aware of any official policy on overnighting there (other than at the fancy hotel), but we did it and had no trouble.  The generous sized lots and 24-hour gas station, convenience store and clean restrooms make it an appealing alternative to a regular truck stop if you are on the road and looking for a place to crash on the cheap (or with an RV).

The smell of the feedlot can get pretty strong at times, depending on how the wind is blowing.  If you absolutely hate that smell, this is probably not the ideal stop for you, or perhaps you’ll want to restrict your visit to a quick gas-snack-and-potty break.  But I do recommend the restaurant if you want a nice meal on your travels as a changeup from the usual truck stop and fast food fare.

This time I just gassed up and got a coffee and an ice cream to boost me along on the last 150 miles home.  Made a call to the Home Office to update them on my location and ETA, then hit the road for the very last leg home.

"Lately it occurs to me . . .

What a long strange trip it's been.

Truckin, I'm a goin home
Whoa-oh baby, back where I belong
Back home, sit down and patch my bones
And get back truckin on
Hey now, get back truckin on!"

"Navigator, navigator. . .

Rise up and be strong
The morning has come
And there's work to be done."

-The Pogues

Tehachapi: Wind, Nuns and Trains

At Barstow I at last left the Mother Road to take Highway 58.  This was my plan to avoid the LA snarl and run through my beloved Mojave.  Made it with an eighth of a tank of gas to go.  That’s all the way from Kingman.  Not as many miles as I can get on the flat with a light-ish load, but not bad given the brutal climb and the headwinds of last night (I’ll have to update on that awful drive later.  It about killed me).

There’s a congregation of religious sisters in Tehachapi.  They have a guest house and welcome people wanting quiet contemplation time, and I’ve been meaning to contact them for a visit since my life had a giant hiccup more than a year and a half ago.  I haven’t got around to doing it yet.

These sisters are actually canonesses, a subtle distinction appreciated by people versed in the world of monastic religious life, but for all intents they can be thought of as nuns.  I’m a bit of a nun fan.  Don’t want to be one, just think they are cool.  These ladies are Norbertines, and they have the coolest habits.  That’s important to me.  I don’t want to be hanging with no sisters in nerdy habits.  They are a contemplative order, so their primary purpose is to offer prayers for the world and to glorify God.  No matter what your personal beliefs, you have to admit it’s pretty cool that there are people in the world who devote their whole lives to just sending out good vibes.  Which is not how they’d put it, but I think it makes the point.  There’s a cool video about them here.

Offering hospitality is one of their traditions.  Last night I was so desperate for sleep and so unhappy with my exposed position at the TA in Barstow that I thought briefly of calling them up.  “Hey, I’m dyin’ here.  Can I crash at your place?  I won’t need a room, I’ve got my own.”  Leaving aside the fact that I would probably never have done such a thing, it was another nearly hundred miles on to Tehachapi from Bastow, and I absolutely could not have done it.  Honestly, I was starting to see things that weren’t really there toward the end of that drive.  I suspect that if I had put it properly, the Norbertines would have allowed me sanctuary for a night.  I would have made a donation.  But it would have taken more chutzpah than I had (or have).

I won’t be bothering the Norbertines on this trip.  I am too close to Bakersfield, and Bakersfield is practically in my backyard after the sort of distances I’ve been dealing with (Distance, holy distance!).

I’m at the Love’s truck stop.  I don’t usually think much of Love’s, I generally prefer Pilot/Flying J.  But this one is pretty good.  Large, with ample parking, a better-than-average store selection, and two restaurants.  The dreaded Subway (I may never be able to set foot in a Subway again—there’s something about the smell of the place . . .), and a Mickey D’s.  Guess which I opted for?  I really didn’t want McDonald’s, but I need food to fuel the rest of the drive home.  Also, both the Subway and the McD’s have some tables with plugs.  This Love’s has better than usual bathrooms too, and a friendly staff.  After the hot car (I turned off the A/C for the last climb), I was surprised by a fresh, cool wind blowing stiffly.  Tehachapi is also big on wind.  It is at nearly 4000 feet, which helps a great deal with the heat index.

Just across the road are railroad tracks.  Right after I arrived a screamingly loud train ripped by.  Now there is one parked there, headed by two handsome BNSF loco’s (that’s Burlington Northern and Santa Fe for you non-train people).   Tehachapi is famous for its trains.

I am getting close to home, so there will be updates and afterthoughts that will have to be added after I’ve left the road.  I’m supposed to be back at work today, but oops.  Texted my boss to explain.  My bosses are reading this blog, and may I take a moment to say THEY ROCK!  THEY ARE THE BEST BOSSES A PERSON COULD EVER WISH FOR!  Actually, I mean that.  Of course, having been reading this narrative, they know of every pee stop, nap, sightseeing detour, afternoon spent shoe shopping, and day frittered away meeting people and blogging.  I can’t claim that I was moving as fast as I could have been, but then again I am driving by myself.  Actually I’m pretty sure I would have been at least one and probably two days ahead if it weren’t for the breakdowns.   Which they also know about (I have receipts!).  If not for all of those delays, I’m sure I’d be home by now.  I’m so close as it is.

Last long push ahead.  I’ll stop in Bakersfield, and again at Harris Ranch.  Blog to you from there. 

Here's a shot out the window of the nearby hillside, showing the typical kind of transitional desert mountain terrain.

Joshua Trees!

My old friends.  More on this later.

 

Update:  I was sure the heat in Barstow would begin to be unbearable as soon as the sun came up, but to my surprise it wasn’t.  I had checked the predicted temps for the morning before I collapsed, and the high at about 11am was only supposed to be about 80, which wasn’t bad at all.  When I closed my eyes it was about 57.

 

Barstow is just over 2,000 feet, so it benefits a little from elevation in keeping it from being quite as terrible as the low parts of the Mojave.  Still, I felt like I was being given a small blessing with the reasonable temperature, for which I was grateful.  I slept fitfully for a little less than five hours.  At somewhere around 10:30 someone pulled in next to me and slammed doors.  I came awake and while I could have used a couple more hours, I felt the pressure to get up and get moving, not least because I wasn’t in an out of the way spot at this TA, and I felt uneasy trying to sleep through the active part of the morning.  Home was only 380 away, and it seemed pointless to not get the last push done with.

 

I managed to get myself together, went in and got a coffee (at last!).  I changed into a fresh set of clothes, noticing as I did that the pants I’d been wearing for days had a Route 66 label in them.  I decided not to get gas at the TA, since I was sure I had enough to get to Tehachapi, my next stop.   By the time I got the truck started and the next stop punched into the GPS, I was feeling surprisingly ok.  The bright day and the wide desert made the drive of the previous night seem like a distant, bad dream.  I knew I had broken the back of the long journey, and the rest would be comparatively easy.

 

I had been trying to remember if my route would take me through the territory of my old friends, the Joshua trees.  Joshua trees are funny creatures.  They have been called “strange and horrible,” and yet they were named for the way they reach up their branches to the sky, like the Biblical Joshua lifting his arms to heaven.  Their branches do often look like arms, strange and twisted arms, topped by spiky foliage that reaches long fingers into the sky.  To me they look like persons attempting to look very scary who, when you get to know them, turn out to be not scary at all but really quite friendly.

 

I had looked for signs of them on the long drive from Kingman, because their territory just edges into Arizona.  But if they were hiding themselves in the dark, I didn’t see.  It was some way out of Bartsow, after I’d left Highway 40, Route 66 and the Mother Road, that I saw my first Joshua tree, a small, hopeful specimen off a ways from the road.  The sight made me both sad and happy.  Sad, because it reminded me of another time, and of things irrevocably lost and beyond my power to save or reclaim.  Happy, because they were indeed old friends of mine, dating back to my childhood long before the sadness I allude to ever was dreamed of.

 

The Joshua tree is a niche plant.  It likes the desert spaces between about 1300 and just under 6,000 feet.  It thrives in the flats where it catches the runoff from surrounding mountains, and even takes in snowmelt from the thin snows that often sprinkle the ground in winter on the higher valleys and flats of the Mojave.  It is considered to be a member of the yucca family, but I seem to recall there has been some discussion about which family it really belongs in.  I think they are wonderful and unique and there is nothing like them.

 

After an ill-considered detour to find the Boron visitor center and the 20 Mule Team Museum, which turned out to be attached to the U.S. Borax mine (the world’s largest open pit borax mine), I turned back when I decided I didn’t want to take the trailer into a possibly dead-end drive.  I was really just looking for a spot to take a picture of a Joshua tree for you.  I could see them off in the distance, but needed one closer for a good picture.

 

Back on the highway, there was a sign for a rest stop, which I decided to hit even though I didn’t technically need one.  I was hoping there’d be Joshuas.  And there were!

 

This fellow appears to have lost an arm.  But he can grow another.

 

 

They bloom around Easter time, big, white, showy blooms.  This year there was a spectacular bloom all over the population of Joshuas, and nobody knows exactly why.  Some think its global warming, others think it is for some mysterious, secret purpose that only the Joshua trees know.  I prefer this theory.  The blooms are long done by now, and the seed pods are dried and waiting to disperse their contents.

 

 

 I picked up a fallen pod from the ground. 

 

 

Here's another fine specimen. 

 

 

I wrote a nonsense song about Joshua trees that talks about how they have "furry knees."  Here is the evidence.

 

 

Sometimes they can take really weird, wacked-out shapes, with arms that appear to be gesticulating wildly.  The one in the background is an example.  You can understand why they might make some folk uneasy, especially silhouetted against a flaming sunset sky when they look wild and other-worldly.  But they are really cuddly and friendly.  Trust me.

 

 

I spent one of the strangest, most magical and surreal nights of my life in a dense Joshua tree forest on the Cima Dome, when I was at the Mojave Desert Phone Booth (sadly, the phone booth is no more.  You can read about it here.  That was another adventure, in another time.)

 

A great place to see these guys is at Joshua Tree National Park.  That park also has fantastic rocks, many of which offer opportunities for easy rock climbing that can be enjoyed even by those of us who are less than physically fit or agile.  I find Joshua Tree National Park to be a tad too neatly tailored and tame for my tastes, but it's worth a visit and it's a great place to take kids.  You can camp there (but it's popular, so you might need reservations).  The time to go is in the fall, winter or spring.  NOT in summer.

 

This rest stop was landscaped to meet the needs of weary desert travelers, so there were some distinctly non-desert trees and grass there.  It was sort of funny to see conifers and broad-leaf trees and green grass alongside Joshua Trees.  They really don't go together.  But it was a nice rest stop anyway, and I was glad they had some Joshuas for me to visit and take pics of for you.  This is the Boron rest stop, and there is another one across the road.  A little less than 4 miles from Boron.  Recommended.

 

 

I looked across the highway to the other side and saw a neat old travel trailer.  It's always fun for me to see other vintage trailers.  I like KD better though.

 

 

Oh Joshua trees!

You got furry knees

And you got spiky heads

But you never wear dreads!

 

Oh Joshua trees!

I know you're smilin' at me!

 

Sartorial Syncronicity

Finally changed out of the set of clothes I've been wearing for days.  Noticed the label in my pants.  I didn't plan that.

Mounted up, ready to ride.

California!

Just arrived Barstow.  Sleep now.  Drove all night.

 

"My time coming, any day, don't worry bout me, no

Been so long I felt this way, ain't in no hurry, no

Rainbows end down that highway where ocean breezes blow

My time coming, voices saying, they tell me where to go.

 

California, preaching on the burning shore

California, I'll be knocking on the golden door!

Like an angel, standing in a shaft of light

Rising up to paradise, I know I'm gonna shine!"

Kingman: No Phone, No Pool, No Internet

Update:  The drive to Kingman was a long one, but much of it was easier than other stretches due to the temperature being reasonable.  Shortly after Flagstaff, we were in the Kaibab Forest.  Just as with the Coconino and the pine trees in and around Flagstaff, I felt gladdened to be in a pine forest again.  I hadn’t realized until I saw it how much I missed it.

 

There were signs for elk crossing, but I didn’t see any actual elk.  Saw hawks though, brown winged and soaring across the road.   Gradually the trees gave way to lower, bushier types as the elevation dropped.  There were a few examples of dramatic striping in the mountain that had been cut away for the road.  I had to look again to make sure it wasn’t painted there in a deliberate attempt at highway beautification.   I wish I had a geologist onboard to tell me what the pale, peach stripe running between masses of reddish rock meant.  Some period of the earth’s history when storms raged over the area raining peach yogurt?

 

At one point there was a scary sign warning of a six percent grade and advising big trucks and vehicles towing trailers to pull over to the safety area and test their brakes.  I gulped, because I don’t have trailer brakes right now (there is an earlier post that needs an update to explain about this).  But it turned out alright, because there are actually some advantages to having a vehicle with limited and low gearing.  Goose has no overdrive, and like all her kind she is geared pretty low.  This makes for crappy gas mileage, but it comes in handy on downhill grades.  All I have to do is lift my foot from the gas, and she sets her wings and settles into a comfortable glide, never getting above fifty-five.  I never had to ride the brake at all, just coast happily down.

 

Down meant hotter, though, and the welcome cool that comes with elevation gave way to warmer temperatures.  Luckily, Arizona has been cooler than New Mexico, mostly due to elevation I think.  In Winslow I actually needed to throw a wool blanket over myself in the trailer, it was that cool.  But I was glad about that, believe me!  Now the heat was bearable, but still tiring when I turned off the A/C on the sharp uphill climbs.  And there were still a good number of those.

 

Finally pulled into Kingman shortly before six.  I had planned on stopping at a travel center that had looked good from satellite view, but when I navigated to the address I had for it, there was nothing there.  Either it vanished out of the space time continuum, or I got the address wrong.  I drove through a section of Kingman’s “historic shopping district,” as they billed it on very inviting signage, but there didn’t appear to be much there.  I’m sure shopping delights would have been revealed on closer inspection, but everything was closed for the evening.  A plot of ground with green grass had a locomotive enshrined on it, but there was nowhere obvious for me to park, so I drove on.

 

Finally routed back to a Flying J I’d passed earlier.  I probably ruled it out initially because it didn’t look as big and generous with pull through parking.  But I must be getting bolder, because although there was a dreadful line for the pumps with RV’s and trailers and cars all jumbled higgledy-piggeldy, I threaded my way through with inches to spare and got my gas.  Squeezing through narrow toll gates and negotiating bobsled runs on stretches of two thousand miles of America’s highways will teach you how much clearance you really need, I guess.  When I went to pull out of that crowd, a lady in a little red car was coming in the opposite direction.  One of us was going to have to back up, and it wasn’t going to be me.  In this case it wasn’t a matter of skill.  I was half turned with people coming up behind me and the only possible solution was for her to back up.  She didn’t look happy about it, but I just smiled and waited patiently.  When it was obvious I was prepared to go back in the trailer and fix myself a drink while she figured out how things stood, she angrily reversed out of the way.

 

I found parking, cleverly setting myself up so that NOBODY COULD BLOCK ME IN, and went and had a meal at the Denny’s, my first regular meal in some time.  My appetite had come back somewhat.  Had a conversation with my brother, who called when he read my complaints of feeling terrible, and he said my flu-like symptoms sounded altitude related.  Loss of appetite is one of the things that happens  with that.  I had taken a couple of aspirin, choked down some food and drunk a bunch of Gatorade, and felt some better.  At Kingman I am below 4000 feet and feeling much better.  I am very tired, but I don’t feel sick now.

 

My plan had been to rest in Kingman for a day, sleeping during the warm hours and getting up in the evening to tackle the Mojave Desert.  At this time of year the Mojave is brutally hot.  The old fashioned way of dealing with it with regards to auto travel was to cross it at night.  That’s my plan.  I just wasn’t able to time my arrival so that I could have most of a day of rest, so I’ll have to make do with a couple hours.

 

I’m currently in a Kingman Walmart parking lot, which does not allow overnight parking and makes it clear this is a city ordnance.  There is a big Class A rig and a medium sized, older travel trailer pulled by a pickup near me.  I don’t know what they are planning on doing, but  I want to get a couple hours of nap before heading out toward Barstow.  I’m hoping the powers that be will think we are traveling in a group.

 

 

Finally, there’s no data coverage from Verizon here.  I find it hard to believe that tiny little out of the way Podunk towns were giving me four bars, and in busy, fairly big Kingman, nexus of travel, I’ve got nothing.  Kingman is flirting with stump territory here.  But perhaps they’ll get a second chance if they allow me a bit of rest before the road.  Typing this by led lantern light, with crickets singing outside.  Delightfully cool now.   I’ll post when I can.

Postscript:  This Walmart closes at midnight, so when I got up from my nap (which wasn't nearly long enough, by the way), there was no coffee to be had.  I could have made some or tried to find some elsewhere, but didn't want to take the time.  Everything looked like it was closed up for the night.

Got a little nervous when I saw this in the distance:

 

 

But the closer I got, the more I realized that something was a little different about this cop car.

 

 

It was a relic from another age.  Somebody's daily driver apparently.  The rather sketchy looking crowd at the Walmart entrance who were hanging out and told me the store closed at midnight had someone in their number who came and drove this away.  Pretty cool ride, I guess.

 

 



Kingman is flirting with the Stump Award here.  No data, no overnight parking, no 24-hour Walmart. . . .it was time to saddle up and ride.

Pilot #180

Avoided a "stump" rating by refunding me fifty cents for the four cents of gas the pump spewed before I could get the nozzle in the filler.  This place, in Bellemont, ten miles past Flagstaff, was a zoo, but they were trying to keep up with overflowing garbage cans and empty paper towel dispensers.  A gentleman in a truck and trailer combo parked next to me, and we had a friendly conversation about his trailer.

When I pulled in for gas, there was a vintage auto just leaving.  The driver gave me a huge grin, a wave and a thumbs up after pointing to KD.  It made us all proud!

Updates

Updated Laguna Pueblo, Gallup to Winslow, Fellow Traveler, and Flagstaff.  Getting ready to hit the road again toward Kingman.  May stop in Williams.

Flagstaff

I knew I was going to like Flagstaff as soon as I crossed the city limits sign, which is well before the actual city proper.  It's set down in the middle of a coniferous forest, the Coconino National Forest if I'm not mistaken.  There's a fresh, cool breeze blowing, and a piney scent in the air.  This town has allowed patches of natural landscaping to remain scattered about the parts of town I can see, which gives it a fresh, attractive feel.  The people seem more affluent, better fed.  And by that I mean better nutrition, not necessarily more calories.  Flagstaff is a more high-falutin' town than scruffy Gallup.

 

This Walmart has a sign stating very clearly that there is no overnight parking allowed, and the parking time limit is 2 hours.  Seriously?  They are going to time me?  I doubt it.  That policy is probably to discourage the riff raff from hanging out here (hopefully nobody in my party can be considered riff-raff).  There are a number of RV's parked here, so obviously people are using it as a rest stop.  It isn't that far from Gallup, and the goal is to make it to Kingman as quickly as possible, but I needed a break.  Trying to break up this leg as much as possible, because to put it bluntly, I feel like shit.  Probably dehydrated, probably need food, but my appetite is shot.  Near 7000 feet here, and I haven't had time to acclimate, so likely that's a big part of the problem.  Also haven't had any coffee yet, but the Subway was out and I can't be arsed to make any. 

 

It's a shame they aren't more welcoming here.  I plan to whip out my blog endorsed by Miss Rodeo Wyoming 2011 and the City of Laramie if anyone hassles me, and point out that I was just in the middle of a long post about how lovely Flagstaff is, and how welcoming they are, and what a great stop for travelers it is.  But I doubt that will be necessary. 

 

KD is perfectly comfortable, with the breeze coming in at the windows.  All I need is an oxygen tank and a cloak of invisibility.

 

 

 

The landscape after Gallup was a pretty, painted desert, peach and umber, with fantastic, piled up red rocks, crossed by the Burlington Northern and Santa Fe Railroad.  Passed one rest stop that had the most awesome rocks.  Wanted to stop, but needed to press on.  The Meteor Crater Trading Post had a bunch of ersatz tipi shapes around what was a fairly elaborate, roadside Americana structure.  It didn't look like much of a going concern.  Hard to tell if it was even open, and it was on the other side of the road so I didn't stop.  Perhaps it was the structure mentioned by one of my readers.   It was shortly followed by the Twin Arrows Trading Post, which also looked pretty dead.

Fellow Traveller

Just met Randall, a Navajo on the road with only his feet for carriage.  I gave him a couple of bucks and we exchanged blessings for the road.  He gave me the gift of allowing me to take his picture (a significant honor indicating trust and respect.  Or maybe he was just glad to get a couple dollars).  He said he was heading back to New Mexico from Fresno.  Probably trying to get home to the res.

 

 

He was proud of his tattoos.  Yazzie is a common Navajo name.  I knew a family with that name who were nice to me when I was doing the powwow circuit.

 

Gallup to Winslow

Pulled into Gallup a little after 5:00 pm, completely knackered.  Had a nap in the heat, then on to Winslow in the cool of the evening.  Just got to Winslow.  Must sleep.  More later.

 

Update:  It was a long, hard drive from Albuquerque to Gallup.  It started out ok, with the landscape opening up to the classic desert southwest scenery.  Mountainsides sheered off to reveal the layered striations of the epochs as they were laid down, mesas rising up out of valleys, and colors from delicate salmon to flaming orange and dusky rose.  At one point there were great masses of tumbled black basalt, broken in piles of jagged blocks, or folded in curved, flowing shapes, frozen in time from the day some volcano vomited it up in a monstrous eruption, back in the time before humans ever walked here.

 

The road is steadily climbing here, and Goose labored on the long grades, relieved by stretches of relative flat or short downhill sections.  Up and up, higher and higher, toward the continental divide.  There were many signs for souvenir shops and indian trading posts.  A reader had sent me a text when I got into New Mexico about a gift shop with large tipis.  I looked for it, but didn't see it.  Not too far from Gallup there was a smoke shop with a building shaped like a large tipi, so perhaps that was what he was remembering.  But it was dark and late, and I didn't stop.

 

At last we crested the rise to the top of the divide.  There were a cluster of gift shops beckoning, but I kept going.  I was anxious to get to get to Gallup.  There was some road construction that slowed things up, but much of the drive had been made at under 50 mph due to the hard climb and the heat, so it took a long time.  By the time I reached Gallup, I was destroyed.

 

I found my scheduled stop, Giant Gas on Historic Route 66.  When I climbed out of the truck, I knew I was not in good shape, but I managed, slowly, to get gassed up, check the oil, clean the windshield and check the hitch.  I found a place to pull off to the side of the pumps and got a snack and a drink.  I felt like I was bonking, but worse.  This station had a gift shop, and I browsed it briefly but saw nothing much of interest and decided I had to have a rest.  I routed to the Gallup Walmart.

 

At the Walmart I crashed.  It was hot.  The ambient air temp wasn't bad at all.  In a shady spot you could be perfectly comfortable.  But there was no shade to be had, so I opened the windows for some cross breeze and tried to sleep.  It was a fitful, hot, unhappy sleep, but I couldn't have gone on.  After dark fell the temperature improved, and I got up and dragged myself into the Walmart for some fresh ice and a few groceries.  I felt feverish and distinctly unwell.

 

One Walmart is pretty much like another, usually (with a few exceptions).  This one was a bit grubby.  There were lots of indians, faces familiar from my powwow days, and lots of little indian kids running around.  The Navajo lady who checked me out looked like she should have been sitting on a blanket with her pottery around her for sale.  She wore traditional, heavy silver and turquoise adornment, and a very Navajo style shirt and skirt.  Walmart is a steadier paycheck than the market, I imagine.  Near the front of the store there were sacks of flour piled up, cloth sacks with a really neat label.

 

 

I'm afraid that is the only picture I took in Gallup, which seems like a bit of a rough and tumble town, but one worth exploring.  I would really have liked to be able to see more of it.  They have a lot of trains, and apparently very loud train noise is a problem.  There were billboards on the approach to town advertising hotels with "no train noise."  In the checkout line there was a local paper with a headline about an initiative for a "quiet zone" having been "derailed," with a picture of a locomotive.  I heard train noises, bellowing locomotive engines and blatting horns almost the entire time I was there, and when I left town I got stuck at a crossing behind a very long, very slow train.

 

I tried to get something at the Carl's Jr. (no longer called Hardee's now that I'm back in the western states), that was right in the lot at the Walmart, but only the drive-through was open, so I had a snack from what I had with me and drove on to Winslow.

 

6/23/74 put enough heart into me to make that drive (and if you don't know what that means, I'll explain later), and the cool night helped a lot.  Also stretches of improved road.  I hit some more road construction, with a detour near Winslow that was difficult to navigate in the dark and with narrow, confusing lanes and unfortunately some bobsled action (a nickname for tight narrow lanes enclosed between k-rails that refers to a truly awful stretch I had to navigate a few years ago while pulling a trailer on a trip with friends).

 

Got to Winslow after midnight, checked the Flying J and bailed for the local Walmart.  Lots of good parking here and found a place along the edge near some trees.  Will try to enclose a pic.

 

I think I've hit the wall.  I feel frankly terrible, as though I'm coming down with something.  Maybe it's the altitude, maybe days of bad food (I'm trying, had some watermelon for breakfast), maybe I'm just finally wearing out. 

Laguna Pueblo

Saw a hand-lettered sign for fry bread out on the highway, and the steering wheel turned itself down the exit.  I found the place by following additional signs.  Its the Indian Arts Center, and they have a lovely little store.  No pictures inside, I'll explain that in an update.  Got my frybread.  Yum!

 

Update:  Frybread is a wonderful thing to come out of a terrible era.  When the indian tribes finally gave up, worn down by disease, starvation, murder, and constant harassment from the US Army and encroaching settlers, they became the responsibility of the US government.  No longer able to feed themselves, they depended on foodstuffs, called commodities, doled out by the indian agent.  It was a shitty deal, and to make matters worse the system was rife with corruption.  They were supposed to get staples like flour and lard, beans and beef.  Often they didn't get what they were supposed to receive, or it was of poor quality, spoiled and weevily.  But they did the best they could.  These people had never used wheat flour, and had to figure what to do with the stuff.  They invented fry bread.  It's a dough from flour, a little baking powder, some salt, lard and water, dropped into hot fat.  It is terribly unhealthy, especially if eaten as a staple of the diet, but it is so good.  Traditionally you sprinkle it with sugar or honey, or sometimes jam.  An indian taco is a piece of frybread heaped with a mixture of meat and beans and whatever else you have handy.  I prefer my frybread with honey.  This one was fresh out of the fryer, so hot I had to let it sit a bit to cool down.  It came with a generous cup of honey.

 

 

It's crispy on the outside and wonderfully chewy on the inside.  I haven't had one in a long time.

 

This is the Indian Arts Center on Old Route 66 in New Laguna.  I think New Laguna refers to the part of town that isn't the original pueblo, parts of which appear to be visible on a nearby hill.  The sign welcomed picture taking outdoors, but asked that visitors refrain from taking pictures inside.  I would have loved to have taken a few, because it was beautiful in there, with a sunken fireplace and many wonderful woven rugs, pottery and kachinas. 

 

 

 

American Indian people tend to be a little touchy about having their picture taken.  There is a traditional spiritual belief that a picture takes a little of a person's soul, making them vulnerable. I've met many people who subscribe to this feeling, but there may be another reason for the reluctance about having a picture taken.  It must get old being treated like an object, some sort of living relic in your own native land.  I suspect that some people cite personal belief as a way to ward off annoying strangers.  I don't blame them.  I don't care for having my picture taken much either, especially by strangers who don't ask (and yes it has happened in such a way as to make me feel objectified, so I have some sympathy for native peoples in this matter).

 

But native people like photographs too, and once they get to know and trust you, they will often allow you to have their picture.  It's a sign of trust and respect, a gift really.  The pictures I have of my native friends I treat with care and respect.

 

There is a little, stone walled courtyard outside, with a small table and some chairs so you can sit down and enjoy your frybread or indian taco.

 

 

A traditional stone oven is built into the corner, but this one is only for decorative purposes.  The lady who made my frybread said some ladies have their ovens outdoors in the traditional way, but she cooks on a regular stove.  It's still incredibly cool, though. 

 

 

Nice mural on the front of the building.  Kitchen to the left, with customers served through the window, door to the shop on the right.

 

I didn't buy anything (though I wanted to), but I promised to mention it on the blog.  This place is a bit more authentic than the usual round of gift shops and souvenir huts littering Route 66.  Worth a stop if you can spare a half hour or so. 

 

The was a scenic pullout from the main highway with a view toward the old pueblo.  Derelict vending huts lined the pullout, but nobody was there doing business.  My camera couldn't capture the view very well.  But I tried.