Wouldn't make a dent in this place.
Friday, January 6, 2012
Uh Oh
I did 10 minutes' penance, picking up detritus from surrounding campsites, because honestly. A million people taking a million rocks?
Wouldn't make a dent in this place.
Wouldn't make a dent in this place.
Safeway Organics
So, the food story. If like us you prefer to eat organic produce, when you get out here in the hinterlands you quickly discover how challenging that can be. And how lucky we are to live near Stanley's Produce in Chicago, where half the stuff on offer is organic.
The small groceries we visited offered few, if any, choices in the produce section, but Safeway, to their credit, has a solid selection. We shopped at several Safeways along our 1500-mile route, returning because we knew we could count on organic apples, oranges, pears, and bananas and a reliable selection of organic veggies, among them broccoli, beans, spinach, tomatoes, and carrots. Because that's pretty much what we eat every day.
Well-sourced dairy and eggs are harder to come by (nothing compares to the ones we get from Bruce's free-range hens down the block), but not impossible. Since I prepare the vast majority of our meals on the road, locating wholesome food is important to us, and it's an eye-opener to discover it ain't all that easy.
Joshua Tree National Park
Pearly pastel wash, 6:30 am, enriches to reveal an unimaginable beauty.
The stunning sunrise almost instantly warms the rocks and everyone in their vicinity, and in this campground that means mostly 20- and 30-something rock climbers. Awesome kids, every one of them, and mostly tent camping. Our immediate neighbors practice yoga and t'ai chi, saluting the sun in silence, perhaps visualizing a perfectly executed climb.
We pack up for our hike, heeding the park instructions to allow 2 gallons of water daily for vigorous activity and taking a half gallon each. Today will be a hydration challenge, starting with the discovery that Art's camp guide had the trailhead wrong from Ryan Mountain. It doesn't begin at our campground...it starts 1.5 miles away, adding 3 miles to our, uh, walk. OK, then. Let's begin.
The first mile and a half on the camp road.
Past massive rock formations that started eons ago as a result of volcanic activity. You can see why climbers are in heaven.
Hard to believe, but Art discovers a melon/squash-like plant growing in this desolation.
We reach the trailhead, and while the pictogram illustrating the 1000-foot rise in 1.5 miles tells a little of the story, the descriptive text calls this a moderately strenuous hike. Moderately strenuous for a mountain goat maybe.
Oh it starts out like a walk down Michigan Avenue...
...but quickly steepens. See tiny Art up there? Motorcyclists have a saying: you gotta ride your own ride. Same goes for hiking, but I'm back here making photos, aren't I, not gathering my breath.
This path is not for the height-averse.
Shout-out to my climbing pal Trish: I might be rock climbing!
After several hydration stops (the park guide sagely advises "when it's half gone, it's time to turn back"), the summit. Hard to convey the landscape below. Time for a rest and our V8 (salt), orange (sugar), and cheese. The avocado I brought turned out to be too long in the tooth to enjoy.
Simply stunning vistas. Oh joy and thank Buddha for protected landscapes. On the way down, we have gravity in our favor, Art noting it's more a mental exercise. With all this rock, foot placement is everything. I pass a man with his family saying "Think of all the people we know who have gone to fabulous destinations like Costa Rica and all over the world but have never visited this California national park." Amen.
The one and a half mile hike back takes place under relentless sun, blasting our skin. The air temperature is 68, but we are dry dry dry. We each have a bottle of water remaining and we ration, pausing in the shade to take in the incredible maneuverings of these climbers. Can you see the people on both rocks, line dipping between them?
Art got me this hat at the Goodwill in Portland. Thanks, honey. I got this Ralph Lauren linen shirt at the same place.
Back at the campsite, Art shoots a pic of a guy at the top of that pointed rock. Happily, he's set up the indispensable shade umbrellas.
It's time for lunch: steaks, sweet potatoes, and onions. Boy are we hungry.
While we eat, a group playing bocce ball on this desert landscape plays through. Do you mind? they ask? Such nice kids. Of course we don't.
This is Princess, who travels with Diane and Ron, a couple camping down the way. What happened to my photo of them I'll never know. They're now back on land after spending 5 years on their boat in Latin America, but not for long. Such good people. We drank up the stories of their travels.
A bit later, the bocce-ball playing group comes over to check out our camper. Their "wizard sticks" are created from beer cans taped together with a drink cup at top. Needless to say they were happy.
People: get one of these. Art's senior pass ($10 for a lifetime) provides free entry into US national parks, normally $15 here. Plus half price for a campsite. Are you ready? These views?
$5 per night.
The stunning sunrise almost instantly warms the rocks and everyone in their vicinity, and in this campground that means mostly 20- and 30-something rock climbers. Awesome kids, every one of them, and mostly tent camping. Our immediate neighbors practice yoga and t'ai chi, saluting the sun in silence, perhaps visualizing a perfectly executed climb.
We pack up for our hike, heeding the park instructions to allow 2 gallons of water daily for vigorous activity and taking a half gallon each. Today will be a hydration challenge, starting with the discovery that Art's camp guide had the trailhead wrong from Ryan Mountain. It doesn't begin at our campground...it starts 1.5 miles away, adding 3 miles to our, uh, walk. OK, then. Let's begin.
The first mile and a half on the camp road.
Past massive rock formations that started eons ago as a result of volcanic activity. You can see why climbers are in heaven.
Hard to believe, but Art discovers a melon/squash-like plant growing in this desolation.
We reach the trailhead, and while the pictogram illustrating the 1000-foot rise in 1.5 miles tells a little of the story, the descriptive text calls this a moderately strenuous hike. Moderately strenuous for a mountain goat maybe.
...but quickly steepens. See tiny Art up there? Motorcyclists have a saying: you gotta ride your own ride. Same goes for hiking, but I'm back here making photos, aren't I, not gathering my breath.
This path is not for the height-averse.
Shout-out to my climbing pal Trish: I might be rock climbing!
After several hydration stops (the park guide sagely advises "when it's half gone, it's time to turn back"), the summit. Hard to convey the landscape below. Time for a rest and our V8 (salt), orange (sugar), and cheese. The avocado I brought turned out to be too long in the tooth to enjoy.
Simply stunning vistas. Oh joy and thank Buddha for protected landscapes. On the way down, we have gravity in our favor, Art noting it's more a mental exercise. With all this rock, foot placement is everything. I pass a man with his family saying "Think of all the people we know who have gone to fabulous destinations like Costa Rica and all over the world but have never visited this California national park." Amen.
The one and a half mile hike back takes place under relentless sun, blasting our skin. The air temperature is 68, but we are dry dry dry. We each have a bottle of water remaining and we ration, pausing in the shade to take in the incredible maneuverings of these climbers. Can you see the people on both rocks, line dipping between them?
Art got me this hat at the Goodwill in Portland. Thanks, honey. I got this Ralph Lauren linen shirt at the same place.
Back at the campsite, Art shoots a pic of a guy at the top of that pointed rock. Happily, he's set up the indispensable shade umbrellas.
It's time for lunch: steaks, sweet potatoes, and onions. Boy are we hungry.
While we eat, a group playing bocce ball on this desert landscape plays through. Do you mind? they ask? Such nice kids. Of course we don't.
This is Princess, who travels with Diane and Ron, a couple camping down the way. What happened to my photo of them I'll never know. They're now back on land after spending 5 years on their boat in Latin America, but not for long. Such good people. We drank up the stories of their travels.
A bit later, the bocce-ball playing group comes over to check out our camper. Their "wizard sticks" are created from beer cans taped together with a drink cup at top. Needless to say they were happy.
I have a dichotomous relationship with being connected. No phone cell towers or internet access available in this park, and as a result attention is focused acutely on the splendid distraction of nature. My theory: this brings moments of perfect clarity unavailable to the wired mind.
This park is mystical, magical. Wizard sticks or no, I wish we could stay for a week.
49 Miles to 29 Palms: Joshua Tree National Park
It's just 49 miles from Desert Hot Springs north and east around the vast Joshua Tree National Park, a mind-boggling 800,000 acres. I'm definitely excited about this destination.
Highway 62, divided, climbs the dry hills.
In 29 Palms we shop for essentials: gas, the NAPA store for a new regulator plus other bits, and provisions. Once we get into the park, we'll be an hour from anywhere. Sparse pickins at the local grocery for organic food lovers, but boxes of baby spinach seem to be ubiquitous.
Doing errands, I feel as though my vital fluids are drying up. It's incredibly dry.
As we make our entrance into the park, forbidding beauty. Legend has it that, in the mid-19th century, Mormon pioneers named the tree after the biblical Joshua, viewing the outstretched limbs as a gesture of supplication, guiding the travelers west.
Ancient locals.
We choose Ryan campground, one of many in the park, because Art got a book at Powell's in Portland that says the grueling hike up Ryan Mountain starts from here. It will turn out to be a fine decision, mostly.
No electricity here, and no water. Our solar panels will drink up the sun, though, and give us everything we need. There are three on top of the Avion--see it nestled into the landscape?
The sun sets behind us. Mon dieu, this place is magnificent.
For supper tonight, all the greenies we had left before shopping: beans, spinach, and broccoli. We're going to need our strength for tomorrow's hike.
In the pastel light, absolute quiet.
Highway 62, divided, climbs the dry hills.
And along the way, swaths of wind generators dot the landscape, an otherworldly sight.
A quick stop at Guide Dogs of the Desert for directions (navigator confesses).
In 29 Palms we shop for essentials: gas, the NAPA store for a new regulator plus other bits, and provisions. Once we get into the park, we'll be an hour from anywhere. Sparse pickins at the local grocery for organic food lovers, but boxes of baby spinach seem to be ubiquitous.
Doing errands, I feel as though my vital fluids are drying up. It's incredibly dry.
As we make our entrance into the park, forbidding beauty. Legend has it that, in the mid-19th century, Mormon pioneers named the tree after the biblical Joshua, viewing the outstretched limbs as a gesture of supplication, guiding the travelers west.
Ancient locals.
We choose Ryan campground, one of many in the park, because Art got a book at Powell's in Portland that says the grueling hike up Ryan Mountain starts from here. It will turn out to be a fine decision, mostly.
No electricity here, and no water. Our solar panels will drink up the sun, though, and give us everything we need. There are three on top of the Avion--see it nestled into the landscape?
The sun sets behind us. Mon dieu, this place is magnificent.
For supper tonight, all the greenies we had left before shopping: beans, spinach, and broccoli. We're going to need our strength for tomorrow's hike.
In the pastel light, absolute quiet.
Thursday, January 5, 2012
Desert Hot Springs
The sound of new year's football games emanates from neighboring campers. It's Jan 3 and astonishing to have awakened and walked out into 70-degree weather at 7 am.
We're here in Desert Hot Springs, just north of Palm Springs, for the healing waters. We both feel like a million bucks, but who's to say the waters won't boost us up a notch. Here's the pool.
And here are the natural spring-fed waters, three pools starting at about 105 degrees and dropping a degree or two down the line. They drain and clean these pools each night, refilling them with the natural spring water than bubbles up here in this starkly dry desert oasis.
When we soaked--at the very moment of sunset when the air temp cooled--the pools were nearly empty, but we had a fine conversation with a couple from Osoyoos, BC, at the southern part of the vineyard-infused Okanagon Valley where it meets Washington State, just north of our friends Kathy and Nancy's Duet Vineyards.
We did some housekeeping in the nice dry enviro. I feel unsettled in the desert, as if the lack of water were a constant threat. For campers without services, of course, it is. Time to dry out the produce bin and let it air dry.
Time, too, to take advantage of the robust laundry here. Good reading left behind.
Here's friendly Vi, who lives at a neighboring park and pops over to do her laundry. She showed me how to work the machines and we're laughing here because I had a little trouble figuring it out. At 84, laughter is her best medicine, she says. Her dear husband and travel partner now gone, she looks me straight in the eye and says: Enjoy it while you can, Heidi.
Thank you, Vi. People like you make travel an endlessly fascinating story.
What have we here? Looks just like the RV Wayne and Rob rented for our trip to Lake Superior (don't click unless you want to read yet another love note to travel), right down to the lunatic whitewater rafting family on the back. Fond memories...
Palm tree, up close. Such a radically different ecosystem.
The sun sets and it's a comfortable 62 degrees. Tonight we'll sleep with the windows open.
To Desert Hot Springs, But First: Mexican Brunch
Making tracks for the desert this first morning of 2012, I tell Art I would kill for some Mexican food with lotsa salsa. We actually smell it first, courtesy of these two guys grilling tri-tip, ribs, and chicken over an open barbecue in the parking lot. Que padre!
Offering brunch the first Sunday of each month is a tradition for the familia Diaz, whose family roots run deep in Ventura County.
Plus they once had that crazy take-a-photo-with-our-bumper sticker routine going and have a bunch of the pix on a big wall. I loved this one.
Can we get to the brunch, please? The aforementioned grilled meats plus homemade tortillas, frijoles, eggs, and many other delicacies, including the classic hangover fix menudo (not that Art required the cure, but naturally he had a bowl. Me, not so much with the tripe). All the people in this restuarant were extraordinarily friendly.
Plus, the highlight--a salsa bar.
Had we not had miles of superslab in front of us, the bar at Familia Diaz looked like a fine place to relax on a new year's day. Here's a big shout-out to my Booth 1 crew: this place would suit us just fine.
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