Salinas, CA

When I began this trip so long ago I could not help but think of another man who undertook a similar trip. He was born and raised in this town. His first novels were written and based in this town. Later, the residents of this town called his books communist and burned them in the town square. He grew to despise this town. Now there are businesses and streets named for him and the house he was born in is an overpriced restaurant with his name on it.

I am speaking, of course, of John Steinbeck. I wasn’t going to come here; the town’s treatment of him and subsequent hypocrisy leaves a bad taste in my mouth. In the final equation, however, how could I resist seeing the original Rocinante? Yes, it’s true, I stole the name from Steinbeck (who stole it from Cervantes), but if one is going to steal, who better to steal from?

The town’s economy is still based on agriculture and the farms are still worked by migrant workers. According to some sources (biased though they are) this is some of the most fertile land in the world. Outside town limits this might be true, inside it’s just another California town.

Plaskett Creek, CA

Driving up a coastline is dangerous in the daytime. The ocean tugs at your eyes when you need most to be taming that twitchy road. After an hour of riding the asphalt wave I had to stop and let my head untwist and where I stopped is a campground near enough to hear the waves crashing on the rocks.

Most nights since I left Big Piney I look up at some point and find Orion, the Hunter. It’s the only constellation I know and I’ve known it since I was young. I’d lie on a raft in the backyard pool for so long that I’d dry out watching Orion creep across the sky, hunting the moon. It sounds silly, but his name sounds like mine so I’ve always felt a connection. I’m a hunter too, I guess, this trip is a hunting trip. My quarry doesn’t have a name yet, but I think I’ve stumbled onto its trail.

Morro Bay, CA

I pulled into the state park in town, fully resigned to coughing up the cash to camp. The check-in booth was empty but had a list of unoccupied sites and a reminder to check in and pay the $20 fee by 10am. I meandered through the park and found a spot amongst all the families enjoying their x-mas break. First I cooked: chicken, mashed potatoes, corn, hot chocolate. Then I watched TV (Rocinante has a flip down TV) and sipped Scotch. Then I took a hot shower. Then I realized all that was left was to sleep, and I could do that anywhere. Then I left and found a nice little side street where I could sleep and keep my $20.

The next morning I found a camera shop in San Luis Obispo where I could get my camera cleaned. Afterwards I went back to Morro Bay and gave my day to the ocean. In return she gave me the sunset.

Ridgecrest, CA

Such a subdivision-y name for a wind-blown military town in the desert. They should call it Fort Hell Sand or Camp Deathwind, something that really lets a person know what this place is. Woke up to another Walmart parking lot, which I have decided is maybe a half-step less depressing than waking up in a Turkish Prison. After many days of desert isolation it was nice to get a chance to catch up on the chores: groceries, internet, ice for the cooler, laundromat, refuel, Rocinante-cleaning.

Quick movie review: Eragon sucked. The plot was thin and contrived and it depresses me that someone got paid for writing it.

Death Valley, CA

Let me explain how they do it, the National Park Service that is. They build these nice little campgrounds with fire rings, electrical hook-ups, hot showers, etc. Then, they charge you 10-25 dollars per night to use them. These campgrounds are really designed for the RV crowd, not people like me who actually camp or just need enough space to park a van. I don’t need electricity, water or a picnic table, I have all those things in the van, yet I still end up paying the same amount as some guy with a 40 foot RV towing a Jeep. Then they don’t tell you where the free primitive camping is and let me tell you, it is a pain in the ass getting woken up at 2am because you didn’t know you couldn’t camp there. The only way to know where you can camp is by the signs that say things like “No Camping Next 3 Miles”. Then you know you can camp before and after those three miles. The problem is, those three miles are the only three miles out of forty where camping is even a possibility. The other 37 miles of road are flanked by deep ravines or man-made berms or giant carnivorous rabbits.

Park rangers aren’t so much protectors of the environment as they are a bunch of rent-a-cops employed by accountants. Don’t get me wrong, I’m all for environmental responsibility, but charging a cover for mother nature is f’ing ridiculous. They tell us the money collected is to help preserve our fragile ecosystems. Keep in mind, these “fragile ecosystems” we tiptoe oh-so gently around will obliterate every trace of human existence within a few thousand years of our eventual extinction. The truth is, it’s somewhat arrogant of us to think that we even could destroy the environment. It was here a long time before we evolved and it will be here a long time after our time at the top of the food chain runs out.

Ok, I’m done with that little rant. Death Valley is amazing. The first night I pulled a few miles down a dirt road and camped. At dusk I found myself sitting on top of Rocinante* (the new name for the beast) watching the last sliver of day trickle down the rocks and wondering if I had ever experienced a silence so complete. My cheap Timex sounded like a hammer on a tin roof and my heartbeat seemed to rattle my head. A bird, silhouetted against the night sky, glided toward me and for a moment I wondered if it might land on my shoulder (or peck my eyes out). It couldn’t have been more than a few feet away when it went over me and even then the silence was perfect. I found myself pitying the creatures it hunts.

The next morning was as still as the night before and I took my time preparing to move on. On the ground I noticed a little scrap of garlic skin next to a rock. I remembered I had watched it land there the night before while preparing my dinner. In twelve hours not a single whisper of wind had so much as tickled that dry wisp into flight.

I spent that day meandering across the valley floor stopping repeatedly to snap photos at places like Badwater (the lowest point (-282 feet) you can drive to in the western hemisphere), Furnace Creek and Artist’s Drive, as well as many spots not blessed with names. By late afternoon I had still not escaped the park so I went looking for another free place to camp. I followed the signs to a place called Wildrose Canyon and on the way there I drove through sleet. That’s right, sleet, in Death Valley.

*Fifty points to anyone who knows what Rocinante is from.
Twenty points to anyone who actually takes the time to Wiki it.
Four points to anyone who asks me about it next time they see me.
Minus 47 points to anyone who doesn’t really care.