California Trip: You're Number 14,000 for Today; or Not
This time of year, there is workable daylight at 4:40 a.m. Not being inclined to linger in the Hotel Olfactory, we were on the road and catching desert forecasts about as grim as the those of the past few days. One of the best things about Winslow is how soon it is gone.
Was the sage purple? Of course it was; at that hour everything was purple, including Humphreys' Peak and Two Guns, AZ. The latter is a good example of life imitating art imitating life: the ruins of a tourist trap ghost town, now a real ghost town. Small wonder the billboard population dwindled as we approached Flagstaff and Humphrey's Peak: when your city is at the bottom of a mountain of close to 13,000 feet, billboards are redundant. Even though you approach from an altitude of 5,000-6,000 feet, that is still one hell of a lot of mountain viewed from 50 miles off.
Flagstaff was a blur in the early morning. The mere discovery of its status as eastern yuppie magnet was enough to evaporate most of my interest in the place, so I passed the time trying to match trees with species names. West of Flagstaff, my AAA Triptik said there would be a sudden drop, and they weren't kidding. In the 20 or so miles between Williams and Ash Fork, AZ, the road drops about 5000 feet. There's one five mile stretch of six to eight percent grade.
About Ash Fork. We have now entered the regions in which "towns" began as whimsical humour by railroad workers: anyplace they left a tool box got a name. Ash Fork must have been one of them, because I don't even recall seeing a fork there.
Seligman, our first stop, was only a slightly wider spot in the road, and an authentic, old-fashioned truck stop with more gas in the kitchen than at the Mobil pumps, authentic fragrant rest rooms, and regular at $2.89 a gallon. When I was a kid, I had to maintain the privy, and believe me, it smelled better than the johns at this place. We stuck to our bagel breakfast, thanks.
Note to Tony Hillerman fans: There are indeed tribal police in the Southwest, and they aren't there for local colour. I-40 crosses several reservations, they do have jurisdiction, and if you are too free with the speed limits in the res, they will stop you. (Tip of the Stetson to the Navajo Tribal cops who were filling up at Seligman when I was.)
Once you've made this descent and reached Seligman, you are in the eastern precincts of the Mojave Desert. It's 60-some miles to Kingman and in all that distance there are no (zip-zilch-nada) amenities, just a lot of big empty spaces, hills with less and less vegetation, and damned few vehicles of any kind. It is here that one begins to take the rigours of the trip seriously.
Around Kingman, the road passes through really spectacular sandstone hills into the real desert: the "you-thought-it-was-desolate before? Just kidding!" desert. Keep in mind this is a desert so unfriendly that when the U.S. Army tried camels there in the 1850s, they couldn't survive. It's also the gateway to the real heat: try upper 80s at 8 a.m. Nothing to do but get your head down and haul ass the 60 miles to Needles. If you're feeling complacent, there's a few burnt-out auto and truck wrecks tastefully placed along the way, to remind you what can happen if you let your attention wander. The only thing lacking were the bones of oxen and settlers.
Allow us to sing you a song as we approach scenic Needles:
Well, thousands of folks back east they say
Are leaving home most everyday
They're beating the hot old dusty way
To the California line
Across the desert sands they roll
Getting outta that old dust bowl
They think they're going to a sugar bowl
But, here is what they find
The police at the port of entry say
"You're number 14,000 for today."
(chorus)
"If you ain't got that Do Re Mi boys
If you ain't got that Do Re Mi
You'd better go back to beautiful Texas
Oklahoma, Georgia, Kansas, Tennessee
California is a garden of Eden
It's a paradise to live in or see
Believe it or not you won't find it so hot
If you ain't got that Do Re Mi."
Woody Guthrie
Yes, chilluns, there is a port of entry, which was closed that Wednesday morning. (Actually, they're there to stop plant pests, not people, but since they had the day off, they missed our grapes.) As I topped off ($2.96 a gallon, speaking of do re mi) the thermometer broke 90 at 9:15 a.m. It's time to move yo' booty.
It's a good thing I'm a fan of desolate grandeur, because the Mojave has plenty of it and not much else. Because it was spring, and because the southern California winter had been unusually wet, there were things growing. Not plants, mind you, as an easterner understands the word, but...things that grew, more or less. I'm not sure I want to know what the place looks like in August.
Just yesterday one of my friends who had lived in California told the story of the day he decided to cross the Mojave between 2 and 4 p.m., driving a brand-new, shiny, gunmetal grey XR-7. When he reached Barstow, the western oasis, he was driving a sandblasted gunmetal grey XR-7, and there hadn't even been a noticeable sandstorm.
Holy shit.
No, I didn't see Roy's. Hell, I couldn't even find the place Roy's was supposed to be. The only sign of life I found was a rest stop somewhere near Newberry Springs, with rattlesnake warnings and palms. I looked around for camels: oh, right, they don't like it here. Too damn hot. And at that point I didn't want to mess around finding Peggy Sue's, either. Turns out it's closer to I-15, the road to Vegas. The climate is just as nasty over there but there's more traffic.
Believe one thing the guides say about Mojave towns: the maps lie! Most never existed, some existed and are now ghost towns, and when you come across a real town, it rather looks like the ghost towns, usually with no more services.
They still mine around Barstow, borates and such, but after the desert, the place looks almost refreshing. It was here that we parted company with Route 66, whose ghostly presence continues to Santa Monica. We were turning northwest, for Bakersfield via California 58.
Real highways, they say, have personalities. California 58's is schizoid. How else can you describe a route that goes from two-lane, to four-lane, to divided four-lane, and back again, completely at random?
A desperate need for lunch found us in the mining town of Boron. Yes, it rhymes with moron, and guess what they mine? They even have a 20-mule team museum and, of course, a Web site. It was only a truck stop Subway we located, but it was here we found one of the trip's authentic characters.
The order-taker at the Subway had a system imposed that disgraced both Seinfeld's "soup Nazi" and the counter people at the Carnegie Deli. Step up, make your selection, order your specials, order drinks, move along. Like the Carnegie Deli folk, she enlivened an otherwise soul-numbing routine with nonstop repartee and a smartass monologue, seamlessly woven into the process without slowing things at all. This woman's talents far exceed her opportunities, and I hope she can take the show to brighter horizons than Moron...sorry, Boron.
Our runner-up for "best of show" was the solitary waitress at the Winslow truck stop. She not only kept the balls in the air, but was actually a little regretful when she got some assistance to manage 20 plus tables.
Other than that, you drive a long way on CA 58 without noticing a whole lot of difference between its environs and the deepest Mojave. (Technically, it still is the Mojave: it just has live people.) It's a little higher, about as dry, and somewhat more featureless, if you discount the stranger man-made features, including the legendary Mojave aircraft graveyard. Then you cross the ridge at Tehachapi and begin the descent into The Valley. Suddenly (another sudden ecological switch) there are coastal cedars, oaks in gorgeous pasturelands, grapevines and olives: Yep, Mediterranean climate; we're getting closer...and once again, screaming down mind-numbing grades.
On the whole, I'm not friendly to agribusiness, but I may have to make an exception for the El Tejon Ranch. CA 58 crosses the most northerly part of this 420 square mile diversified ranch and agricultural enterprise. I'm a northern New Englander: to me, a big farm is 420 acres. However, I appreciate a commitment to husbandry when I see it, and this land was beautifully managed. I also like the idea of a continuity that predates Anglo influence. Rancho El Tejon has been there since 1843, founded when California was still a Mexican province. it's nice to know something escaped the gold rush land grab intact.
Reaching Bakersfield was very nearly a shock. Ninety-three hours after we left Marblehead, we pulled up to the daughter's apartment complex. Exploration was a bit beyond us, so at Emily's direction, we drove to a Starbucks directly across from her workplace, wrapped ourselves around the cold and the caffeinated, and became fixtures for two hours.
Was the sage purple? Of course it was; at that hour everything was purple, including Humphreys' Peak and Two Guns, AZ. The latter is a good example of life imitating art imitating life: the ruins of a tourist trap ghost town, now a real ghost town. Small wonder the billboard population dwindled as we approached Flagstaff and Humphrey's Peak: when your city is at the bottom of a mountain of close to 13,000 feet, billboards are redundant. Even though you approach from an altitude of 5,000-6,000 feet, that is still one hell of a lot of mountain viewed from 50 miles off.
Flagstaff was a blur in the early morning. The mere discovery of its status as eastern yuppie magnet was enough to evaporate most of my interest in the place, so I passed the time trying to match trees with species names. West of Flagstaff, my AAA Triptik said there would be a sudden drop, and they weren't kidding. In the 20 or so miles between Williams and Ash Fork, AZ, the road drops about 5000 feet. There's one five mile stretch of six to eight percent grade.
About Ash Fork. We have now entered the regions in which "towns" began as whimsical humour by railroad workers: anyplace they left a tool box got a name. Ash Fork must have been one of them, because I don't even recall seeing a fork there.
Seligman, our first stop, was only a slightly wider spot in the road, and an authentic, old-fashioned truck stop with more gas in the kitchen than at the Mobil pumps, authentic fragrant rest rooms, and regular at $2.89 a gallon. When I was a kid, I had to maintain the privy, and believe me, it smelled better than the johns at this place. We stuck to our bagel breakfast, thanks.
Note to Tony Hillerman fans: There are indeed tribal police in the Southwest, and they aren't there for local colour. I-40 crosses several reservations, they do have jurisdiction, and if you are too free with the speed limits in the res, they will stop you. (Tip of the Stetson to the Navajo Tribal cops who were filling up at Seligman when I was.)
Once you've made this descent and reached Seligman, you are in the eastern precincts of the Mojave Desert. It's 60-some miles to Kingman and in all that distance there are no (zip-zilch-nada) amenities, just a lot of big empty spaces, hills with less and less vegetation, and damned few vehicles of any kind. It is here that one begins to take the rigours of the trip seriously.
Around Kingman, the road passes through really spectacular sandstone hills into the real desert: the "you-thought-it-was-desolate before? Just kidding!" desert. Keep in mind this is a desert so unfriendly that when the U.S. Army tried camels there in the 1850s, they couldn't survive. It's also the gateway to the real heat: try upper 80s at 8 a.m. Nothing to do but get your head down and haul ass the 60 miles to Needles. If you're feeling complacent, there's a few burnt-out auto and truck wrecks tastefully placed along the way, to remind you what can happen if you let your attention wander. The only thing lacking were the bones of oxen and settlers.
Allow us to sing you a song as we approach scenic Needles:
Well, thousands of folks back east they say
Are leaving home most everyday
They're beating the hot old dusty way
To the California line
Across the desert sands they roll
Getting outta that old dust bowl
They think they're going to a sugar bowl
But, here is what they find
The police at the port of entry say
"You're number 14,000 for today."
(chorus)
"If you ain't got that Do Re Mi boys
If you ain't got that Do Re Mi
You'd better go back to beautiful Texas
Oklahoma, Georgia, Kansas, Tennessee
California is a garden of Eden
It's a paradise to live in or see
Believe it or not you won't find it so hot
If you ain't got that Do Re Mi."
Woody Guthrie
Yes, chilluns, there is a port of entry, which was closed that Wednesday morning. (Actually, they're there to stop plant pests, not people, but since they had the day off, they missed our grapes.) As I topped off ($2.96 a gallon, speaking of do re mi) the thermometer broke 90 at 9:15 a.m. It's time to move yo' booty.
It's a good thing I'm a fan of desolate grandeur, because the Mojave has plenty of it and not much else. Because it was spring, and because the southern California winter had been unusually wet, there were things growing. Not plants, mind you, as an easterner understands the word, but...things that grew, more or less. I'm not sure I want to know what the place looks like in August.
Just yesterday one of my friends who had lived in California told the story of the day he decided to cross the Mojave between 2 and 4 p.m., driving a brand-new, shiny, gunmetal grey XR-7. When he reached Barstow, the western oasis, he was driving a sandblasted gunmetal grey XR-7, and there hadn't even been a noticeable sandstorm.
Holy shit.
No, I didn't see Roy's. Hell, I couldn't even find the place Roy's was supposed to be. The only sign of life I found was a rest stop somewhere near Newberry Springs, with rattlesnake warnings and palms. I looked around for camels: oh, right, they don't like it here. Too damn hot. And at that point I didn't want to mess around finding Peggy Sue's, either. Turns out it's closer to I-15, the road to Vegas. The climate is just as nasty over there but there's more traffic.
Believe one thing the guides say about Mojave towns: the maps lie! Most never existed, some existed and are now ghost towns, and when you come across a real town, it rather looks like the ghost towns, usually with no more services.
They still mine around Barstow, borates and such, but after the desert, the place looks almost refreshing. It was here that we parted company with Route 66, whose ghostly presence continues to Santa Monica. We were turning northwest, for Bakersfield via California 58.
Real highways, they say, have personalities. California 58's is schizoid. How else can you describe a route that goes from two-lane, to four-lane, to divided four-lane, and back again, completely at random?
A desperate need for lunch found us in the mining town of Boron. Yes, it rhymes with moron, and guess what they mine? They even have a 20-mule team museum and, of course, a Web site. It was only a truck stop Subway we located, but it was here we found one of the trip's authentic characters.
The order-taker at the Subway had a system imposed that disgraced both Seinfeld's "soup Nazi" and the counter people at the Carnegie Deli. Step up, make your selection, order your specials, order drinks, move along. Like the Carnegie Deli folk, she enlivened an otherwise soul-numbing routine with nonstop repartee and a smartass monologue, seamlessly woven into the process without slowing things at all. This woman's talents far exceed her opportunities, and I hope she can take the show to brighter horizons than Moron...sorry, Boron.
Our runner-up for "best of show" was the solitary waitress at the Winslow truck stop. She not only kept the balls in the air, but was actually a little regretful when she got some assistance to manage 20 plus tables.
Other than that, you drive a long way on CA 58 without noticing a whole lot of difference between its environs and the deepest Mojave. (Technically, it still is the Mojave: it just has live people.) It's a little higher, about as dry, and somewhat more featureless, if you discount the stranger man-made features, including the legendary Mojave aircraft graveyard. Then you cross the ridge at Tehachapi and begin the descent into The Valley. Suddenly (another sudden ecological switch) there are coastal cedars, oaks in gorgeous pasturelands, grapevines and olives: Yep, Mediterranean climate; we're getting closer...and once again, screaming down mind-numbing grades.
On the whole, I'm not friendly to agribusiness, but I may have to make an exception for the El Tejon Ranch. CA 58 crosses the most northerly part of this 420 square mile diversified ranch and agricultural enterprise. I'm a northern New Englander: to me, a big farm is 420 acres. However, I appreciate a commitment to husbandry when I see it, and this land was beautifully managed. I also like the idea of a continuity that predates Anglo influence. Rancho El Tejon has been there since 1843, founded when California was still a Mexican province. it's nice to know something escaped the gold rush land grab intact.
Reaching Bakersfield was very nearly a shock. Ninety-three hours after we left Marblehead, we pulled up to the daughter's apartment complex. Exploration was a bit beyond us, so at Emily's direction, we drove to a Starbucks directly across from her workplace, wrapped ourselves around the cold and the caffeinated, and became fixtures for two hours.
posted by Uncle | 15:45
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