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Published: November 20th 2009
Monday 19th October to Friday 20th November, 2009.
As the warmth of Summer, in the main part due to an Autumn that never existed steamrollered headlong into Winter bringing with it the first rains and sub seventy degree temperatures since February memories of my September visitors had faded to the point where it almost felt as though they’d never even been here.
Having splashed out a small fortune on a Ski Pass and committed a further two hundred bucks a month to stake a claim to five square feet of floor space in a dingy Motel Room it seemed a safe bet to assume that a fair percentage of my coming winter weekends were going to be spent on the snowy slopes of Mammoth Mountain. Bearing this in mind whilst awaiting the first substantially snowy dump of the season I decided now was the right time to take advantage of a relative lull in social activities by taking off on a mini solo road trip, my proposed destination The Joshua Tree National Park, which even for only one day I thought would be just the ticket. .
After an hour and a half of nauseating tail to bumper
freeway driving spent fleeing the LA conurbation the unforgettable sight of the ‘far as the eye can see’ turbines of the San Gorgonio Pass came into view and with them the realization that in the manner of some 16th century compass clutching conquistador I was finally about to realize the main purpose of my journey and enter what was previously, for me at least, uncharted territory.
The wind turbine’s, over 3,000 of them in all are located adjacent to the Palm Springs exit of the 10 Freeway and give a welcoming sign to the weekend pleasure seekers headed to the desert oasis of their imminent arrival not to mention an awesome, almost hypnotic and seemingly living, breathing spectacle.
At first there is just a solitary rectangular formation of the lanky props lethargically rotating in the shadows of the mountains to the right but within minutes they are everywhere and you find yourself completely surrounded as they line up across the barren landscape like platoons of Napoleonic troops awaiting the drummers signal to enter battle.
It is quite a sight and one that caused me to ponder how regretful poor old George C. Custer must have felt of
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Flippin' 'eck. I coulda sworn she was a cavegirl !!his decision to pitch camp at Little Big Horn when Crazy Horse, Little Bull and the rest of the boys finally showed their faces on the surrounding hilltops. At the same time I marvelled at how the sweeping bend that transformed the 10 Freeway into Highway 62 had somehow managed to avoid becoming a notorious accident black spot, my own attempts at finding a safe and appropriate place to pull off the road, take in the view and ‘capture the moment’ causing a symphony of truck horns to fill the air and to almost result in not one but two multi vehicle pile ups.
By the time the turbines had faded out of range of my rear view mirror greatly increasing my chances of seeing my next birthday in the process Highway 62 had become just another bland and empty desert road, long, straight, black and as dull as dishwater and as it dipped its way into the equally drab Morengo Valley with no sign of other vehicles ahead or behind I suddenly became aware of two bright red dots on the distant horizon, two dots which thirty seconds or so later revealed themselves to be a couple of
rucksack carrying hitch hikers.
My thoughts immediately turned to the hitching days of my youth when, between the ages of sixteen and twenty the
’rule of thumb’ was my principal means of mid to long distance transport. Back then my usual co conspirator's on the road were Dave 'Curly' Bonney and big brother Jon always en route to some far flung theatre of the British Isles to see whoever was big, or for that matter unheard of in the world of rock'n'roll. It's only when I see it written down in black and white that it dawns what an eerily close similarity in name to the 'real' three stooges we were, for Curly, Jerry and me read Curly, Larry and Mo.
With the odds of three people getting a ride together slashed dramatically and despite being the youngest I would always for reasons I've never understood insist that they travel together and that I would follow alone. I always thought it was concern for my big brother's safety but maybe it was my sub concious telling me that I would grow to enjoy travelling solo. Many people can’t understand why anyone would would want to venture out all
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Brazillian Morticia. What a likeness. alone but for me it really is the most exciting way to travel and explore.
Hitch hikers, thanks in no small part to the irresponsibility of Hollywood and in particular the antics of a certain Mr Hauer have over the last ten years or so become a severely endangered species on the highways and byways of the civilised western world, so much so that there is now more likelihood of seeing a Pinta Island Tortoise plodding along your local high street than there is of happening across a roadside hopeful with an outstretched thumb.
The reason for this sad state of affairs is quite simply fear, people these days being too scared to even consider the notion of placing their lives in the hands of a complete, and quite possibly deranged psychopathic stranger simply to get to where they want to go. They’d rather walk. Despite this depressing sign of the times my memories of youth were strong and I instantly found myself drifting into a fuzzy haze of nostalgia.
If by chance
’thumbing it’ was still deemed as a safe and reliable enough means of getting from A to B as it was back when I
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Caveman my arse. Phil and I decide who's gonna beat the captured imposter with a T Rex tibia. was a ‘user’ then there’s no doubt that the declining standards of today’s society would dictate that it be practiced with a noticeable lack of the courteous chivalry that once existed. That was when new arrivals to the motorway slip road would, upon seeing the long line of cardboard sign clutching expectants stretching into the distance simply walk to the far end of the line like a supermarket checkout queue and simply wait their turn ensuring that not only would lift’s be given and taken in a chronological order of arrival but that latecomers would risk adding to the possibility of abduction at the hands of a perverted knife wielding weirdo that of being ruthlessly mown down by a fatigued trucker on the main drag.
With every rule there is an exception of course and in this case it came in the form of the anorak wearing, balding middle aged men who clutched to their chest not a scruffily written piece of card denoting their desired destination but simply a red and white metallic registration plate. These plates belonged to the cursed delivery drivers who would spend their days driving the length and breadth of the country to deliver
vehicles to sales show rooms, earn a crust into the bargain and then like sponges rely on the kindness and generosity of others to get them home in time for dinner.
To the non plate owners such as myself these twelve inch by five inch sheets of metal appeared to be the holy grail of hitchers as regardless of what letters or numbers were printed on them they always seemed to spell trucker speak for ‘I’m one of you guys, I’m stuck for a lift and I’m going your way’. I lost count of the number of times a king of the road would hiss to a standstill on the hard shoulder generating a huge wave of excitable optimism amongst the waiting throngs in the process, reach across to swing open the passenger door and then inform the unkempt, long haired hopeful straining his neck to see inside and query the truckers destination without the slightest hint of pity that he hadn’t stopped for him but for the wheezing overweight geezer who as he spoke was wobbling his way down the slip road.
With my memories of distant times spent thumbing the motorways of the UK fizzing through
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I was expecting a thatched bar, a pool and some scantily clad servers !. my mind and the fact that my past experiences meant I was fully aware of exactly how the couple’s expectations would be soaring at the sight of the lone occupied silver SUV heading their way I made a spur of the moment decision to stop and give them a ride ………. and then overcome with sweet memories of a bygone age proceeded to drive by without so much as a second glance.
I was a hundred yards or so beyond the two no doubt mentally shattered travelers when the realization dawned that I’d driven straight past them subconsciously causing me in a moment of unbridled guilt to slam my foot on the brake pedal and screech to a halt, two wheels on the gravel shoulder causing small stones to shoot out like machine gun bullets and a large dust cloud to form behind me.
When the cloud had dispersed sufficiently a glance into the mirror confirmed that the two hitchers were fully aware that their luck had changed as I could just about make them out hurriedly scuttling towards me like two radio operators scrambling up the beaches of Normandy as fast as their overladen legs would carry
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With Deb and pal. Hatapalooza 2009. them. With the front seat, cluttered with my belongings, pushed as far forward as possible I turned and reached over to make some room for the approaching bodies and rucksacks and instantly realized that there wasn’t any and that the bicycle that I’d forgotten I’d lifted in two hours earlier was taking up every spare inch of space thus ruling out any faint possibility that may have existed of squeezing them in.
Quickly and thankfully before they’d reached me removing the red faced need to apologetically explain it wasn’t some sort of sadistic mind game I was indulging in but a genuinely simple memory error I accelerated away kicking up more stones as I went not daring to look back for the inevitable sight of the two fist shaking travelers sinking despondently to their knees.
I was still feeling rotten half an hour later when I entered the township of Joshua Tree, the third settlement I’d come across in the half hour since deserting the backpackers where I immediately sought out and found the National Park Visitor Centre, not too difficult a task considering that the place consisted of just a main street and a handful of arterial
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Becks swings one in en route to the National Final. 'At's my boy. side roads.
The Joshua Tree National Park, ingeniously named after the largest Yeti like member of the Yucca plant family which resides there by the million straddles across two adjacent deserts, The Mojave and the Colorado as well as the Little San Bernadino Mountain Range and covers a total of over 1200 square miles of arid scrubland.
My uncharacteristically sensible intentions of calling into The Visitor Centre were to pick up a map of the park, a very rare case of my erring on the side of caution and to ask advice for a suitable route for my planned bike ride and as I approached the counter a cardboard placard dominated by a photograph of a Joshua and writing in big bold and black letters caught my eye. It spelled out the ruthless nature of the land I was about to explore and finished with a list of desert do’s and don’ts;-
Do drink plenty of water
Do wear a hat and sunglasses
Do wear sunblock
Do not stray off the trails
Do not enter any disused mineshafts, followed in brackets by the simple spine chilling words (Stay Out and Stay Alive)
Do not forget the essentials;
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No, she's definitely a leopard !! I think. rain protection, flashlight, mirror, whistle, pencil and paper, pocket knife, extra food etc etc.
As I read through the list a quick in the head calculation told me that without a visit to the nearest supermarket I was equipped to probably achieve about twenty per cent of those requirements. But no matter, if I cycled in one direction and returned Hansel and Gretel like along the same route how could I possibly go wrong.?
The elderly guy at the desk like a disheartened pensioner seeking his first ‘house’ call of a long evenings Bingo haphazardly circled an area on a basic line diagram map that I was soon to realise bore no resemblance whatsoever to reality and told me that this area, the plains of The Queen Valley, was home to the largest specimens of the tree within the confines of the park.
He continued, running his finger along the red line on the plan as he spoke that if I drove fourteen miles along the road outside ensuring that I stopped at the manned barrier to pay the Yogi Bear Ranger my fifteen buck entry fee and left my vehicle at the Barker Dam Car Park
that this would be the perfect place to saddle up and head out from. I thanked him, followed both his instructions and hastily created map to the letter of the word and fifteen minutes later found myself with not the foggiest idea whatsoever of my whereabouts.
The further I ventured into the park the more the landscape reminded me of Jon Pertwee era Dr Who, miles upon miles of barren wilderness populated by just randomly placed mounds of yellowy grey rock and thousands upon thousands of these ugly shrubs cum trees which, with their hairy trunks rustling in the wind gave off an illusion of almost being alive.
I half expected at any moment to see a flash bomb explosion followed by the good doctor and the mustachioed figure of the brigadier, pistol drawn, striding through the smoke and off into the distance in search of the latest android race to threaten the planet but fortunately for my sanity that never happened and as I drove further sightings of other human’s became less and less until when I finally located and pulled into the Barker Dam car park there was just me and the distant whistling sound of
a gentle desert wind blowing across the plains.
I opened the door and started to eat the pre packed salad lunch that I’d bought back in Long Beach and was immediately joined by four tiny and inquisitive looking squirrel like creatures each of whom adopted the hindlegged Mere Kat position looking up at me like a bunch of down on their luck panhandler’s from the car park.
I couldn’t identify them as any particular breed, all I knew despite their cuddly cuteness was that they were members of the rodent family and as such likely to possess the sharpest pair of front incisor’s imaginable, capable with one small nibble of injecting into my bloodstream some as yet unidentified and no doubt potentially fatal disease. At exactly the same time this fact became clear it also dawned on me that if these tiny critters could sense the presence of food within literally seconds of its arrival then so could other much larger less amiable inhabitants of the desert wilderness. I promptly closed the door and finished my meal in total silence.
Before leaving the Jeep and heading out along the sandy track that I’d cleverly identified from the
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Dana struts her stuff against the backdrop of LA. old man’s scribble as being the optimistically titled Bighorn Pass Road (so named after the horned sheep which occasionally frequent the area and bearing no more resemblance to a road than Belmont Pier) I recalled the list of essentials from the visitor centre and set about packing my tiny rucksack. Water; check, sunglasses; check, iPod (incredibly not even mentioned on the list of survival essentials causing me to make a mental note to call into The Visitor Centre on my way home and point out the glaring omission); check, camera (see iPod); check and then realized that that was about as far as I went.
I wasn’t going to be doing any still life sketching so the pencil and paper could be omitted, judging by the cloudless blue skies there would be no need for fisherman’s cape and sowester rain protection in the foreseeable future, any propensity for vanity that may have existed within me could wait until my return thus eliminating the need for a mirror and the reasons for a pocket knife I didn’t even want to consider but I didn’t have one anyway and so that was the end of that. I’d packed sunscreen and lip
balm before leaving home but by the time I’d scrolled through the complete list I had unfortunately completely forgotten not only about their presence in the car but also their position at the top of the list.
Although the skies were blue and the sun large and white it was low in the sky didn’t feel like the sort that would singe eyebrows and remove three layers of skin in ten minutes. The cooling breeze blowing across the plain was seeing to that so, figuring that the remains of my summer tan would protect me just fine I left my long sleeve shirt on the passenger seat and set off dressed just in shorts and wife beater, vest to you and I.
Cycling along Bighorn wasn’t easy, imagine cycling along a horizontal sand dune and you’ll understand what I mean but after ten minutes I was beginning to become a master of recognizing by shade the firmer, easier to negotiate patches. The Jeep was by now out of sight and I found myself completely alone bar for a million and one spiky plants who all seemed to be checking me out the way cow’s do for as far
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Rock. Note the climber half way up. as the eye could see. It felt wonderfully uplifting if a little spooky. Despite the vastness of our planet it is very rare to find oneself in such an enviable position of total solitude and accompanied by just a shuffling iPod I was loving it.
Twenty minutes later and still without sight of human being I spotted a black strip of tarmac in the distance and consulting the map that I’d thankfully remembered to put in my pocket realized I was coming to the end of Bighorn where it joined the smooth asphalt of Park Boulevard. Judging by the not to scale plan that I was still to recognize as being such and bearing in mind I’d been cycling for about half an hour across difficult terrain it was at this stage that I made a decision that three hours later I was to slightly regret.
I figured that to follow the tarmac of Park Boulevard, another example of poetically ambitious road naming in a roughly westerly direction past Ryans Mountain and Cap Rock and then turn right and northwards up Keys View Road past The Lost Horse Trail and The Hidden Valley Picnic Area before turning right
again to return to the Jeep would be roughly three times further than I’d already cycled. Bearing in mind that this route would see me literally flying along mostly flat and desolate desert highway rather than struggling across sandy trails and I reckoned I’d be back at the car in about one and a half hours.
After an hour I still hadn’t come across the first tee junction, the gentle breeze as if exercising it’s birthright born of existing in an area of such climatic extremes had transformed itself into a chilly mid afternoon wind of typhoon proportions and my lips were feeling as though they’d spent the past week wrapped around the exhaust pipe of a hot rod. I’d witnessed only the occasional tell tale sign of human existence in the form of the occasional blur of a passing Winnebago or SUV and had on one occasion even managed to almost enter into conversation with someone other than myself.
When you don’t feel like conversation in everyday life all is usually good. Decent people will hopefully recognize and respect the fact you’re in no mood for idle chit chat and leave you to your thoughts but when
silence is forced upon you due to a distinct lack of human contact it’s peculiar how after a relatively short period of time you begin to crave some form of social interaction.
As I rode over the crest of a small hill I saw ahead of me a youngish couple returning to their holiday rental car having just blatantly broken all the house rules by pulling into a lay by and straying into the scrub to pose for a couple of memorative snaps sprawled against the trunk of a fallen Joshua. Whether the fact that they realized I’d spotted them from afar committing the cardinal sin of leaving the road which had in turn instilled a deep sense of shame or whether they were simply just plain miserable bastards I don’t know but as I slowed down on approach looking for just the slightest hint of eye contact so that I could engage in and receive back in return a simple greeting they both diverted their sightline’s to the ground and shuffled past staring at their shoes. In a second the chance had gone.
Half an hour later I came across a simple sign at the side of
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Candy Stripes.... whatever they are ! the road which immediately raised my concerns that the inevitable time had come to enter a spell of ‘Flight of the Pheonix’ style oasis spotting desert hallucinations. White on brown the sign consisted simply of an arrow with the words ‘Oyster Bar’ printed alongside. I rubbed my eyes whilst painting pictures in my head of an al fresco thatch roofed bar nestled alongside a turquoise pool with beautiful scantily clad waitresses serving complimentary ice cold cocktails and fresh oysters straight from the shell and then allowed them to follow the direction of the arrow and saw nothing but spiky bloody trees and a thin and rarely used trail heading off into the abyss. I never did find out what it was.
Eventually, after almost four hours and too many miles to even contemplate counting I arrived back at the the Jeep, dismounted and let the bike fall to the ground. At that particular instance I swore that I never wanted to see it ever again and even briefly considered dropping to my knees and digging a shallow grave for it with my bare hands there and then before putting the seats back up in the Jeep and setting off
in search of the two hikers, not only to offer my sincerest apologies for my actions earlier in the day but simply to get involved in a conversation.
My lips had taken on the look and feel of two sun dried tomatoes and the sun had stained my body to the effect that standing in just my shorts I resembled Jerry The Berry wearing a beige vest but I’d survived and I left Joshua Tree for the three and a half hour drive home, due to home time traffic more than double the length of time it took to get there pleased with myself that I’d taken the trouble to visit.
Later that evening when I’d finally fought my way through the rush hour traffic Phil and I had a fitting appointment for our outfits for the following nights fancy dress extravaganza we were attending and so accompanied by the girls and armed with a bottle of champagne and a bunch of flowers we made our way to Jo Jo’s house.
Jo Jo, a friend of Lisa’s is a talented lady who spends her days designing and creating not to mention blogging about spectacular examples of corsetry.
Being aware of her skills as a seamstress extraordinaire and struggling to come up with something other than the cheap, crappy and unoriginal shite that is crammed into the multitude of costume stores which spring up from out of nowhere all over the United States at this time of year we had approached her and explained our predicament asking if she would mind lending a helping hand. Thankfully she didn’t.
I’d originally suggested making our second successive appearance at Monster Massive, the fancy dress electronic music festival held every Halloween at The LA Collessium dressed as members of Kiss but that was a couple of months ago. Now, with just a couple of days to go and conceding that the chances of getting our hands on a few square yards of spandex, a couple of pairs of size nine, knee length platform boots and a dragons head cod piece which would fire miniature rocket grenade’s at the flick of a switch were practically non-existent we’d downsized our ambition and settled, having met and discussed possibilities with Jo Jo, on a couple of cavemen.
The most remarkable piece of kit Jo produced as our we were scissored, pinned and
streamlined into the finished article like a couple of wide boys on Saville Row were the beautiful little fur booties that came complete with an ingenious Velcro fastening at the back and an elasticated strap underneath. Reminiscent in appearance to the suede ankle boots favoured by my dear grandmother these weren’t just haphazardly put together off cuts of tunic material but expertly engineered made to measure footwear which led me to believe that if Jo Jo had been around during the Neantherdal period that those strip drawings showing how man had evolutionised from ape would be missing two or three phases going straight from hairy, unshaven bent over beast straight to cane carrying, spat wearing sharp dressed man.
When the costume adjustments were completed we ventured out to pick up some dinner from Fourth Street, the residential area close to her house and found it to be alive with ghouls, vampires and Frankenstein’s which, as this was only Halloween Eve, emphasized not only how much effort American’s put into this time of year but which also succeeded in increasing our excitement levels for the following evening.
We were joined for our Halloween night by neighbour Dana and her
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With Jeff and Mark at Hatapalooza '09. friend Sabrina whowere dressing as candy stripes, whatever they may be other than an excuse to wear very little without getting arrested, and in a bid to keep costs to a minimum had all booked into the same hotel room. The fact that it was at the landmark Westin Bonaventure in Downtown LA, one of the cities plushest and most luxuriously expensive hotels with all rooms offering apparently unrivalled floor to ceiling views of the City was thankfully countered by Dana using her work contacts to get a great price.
The first thing I noticed when we entered the hotel wasn’t the fountains, the fish ponds, the forty two shops and restaurants nor the slowly rotating cocktail lounge but the sweaty Asian man working out twenty yards overhead, the lobby being bizarrely encircled by an elevated jogging track complete with fully equipped pull offs just in case you fancied interrupting your run in front of all and sundry to spend some time pumping a bit of iron. Needless to say we didn’t.
Despite the plush nature of the hotel lobby and the presence of full length windows the rooms were similar in size to my wardrobe, just about
big enough to swing a cat ensuring that four people simultaneously attempting to change into character resembled the moments when stalemate is achieved in a game of draughts, one moving allowing another to fill the vacant space.
The night itself was a blast; four stages, quality music, complimentary bar courtesy of the VIP tickets we’d invested in and despite there being in excess of 40,000 attendee’s the vast majority of whom were in costume only one other example of a caveman who, and it didn’t take much figuring out, was immediately identified as a fraud. Whoever heard of a ginger haired stone age man with pale skin and perfectly maintained teeth ? Honestly, if a job’s worth doing ..........
We also came across one divine example of a cavewoman, or at least thought we had, it only becoming apparent when viewing the photographs the following morning that the blonde Raquel Welsh I’d believed to have fallen to earth straight from One Million Years BC was in reality nothing of the kind but in fact a leopard. In hindsight the ears and the long pointed tail should have given the game away but some things can provide a distraction
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Can you tell what it is yet ? Photo class field trip. It's actually a close up of a sixteen year old's hackney taken with 18-55mm lens at f5.6 with a 1/500 shutter speed, ISO 400 and no White balance. No it's not, it's a tree. from reality and she had two of them !
The evening ended in the hotel’s rooftop garden watching the sun come up over Los Angeles. I drifted into a deep sleep at about seven am and was woken by Sabrina singing, and I’d love to be able to say like a nightingale, an hour and a half later at the top of her voice in a wholly successful attempt at getting us all up out of bed and on the road home.
A little bit of excitement came to The Shore midway through the month of October in the form of a visitation from the production team of a hit international TV show. I returned home from work one day to find a piece of paper sellotaped to my front door which on closer inspection revealed itself to be notification from the producer’s of ‘CSI Miami’ that they planned to film a couple of scenes including a car chase in the street immediately outside my flat. CSI Miami filmed in Southern California, a surefire sign to believe nothing you ever see on television if ever there was one.
As I’d be at work this wouldn’t be a
problem, just a shame I’d miss the spectacle, the only catch as the piece of paper went on to explain being that residents of 54th Place instead of being compensated for their inconvenience would not be able to park their vehicles within two blocks of home between the hours of 6am and 8pm on the day of the shoot. The sheet of paper had at the bottom a section for resident comments which came with the promise that it would be collected the following day and that anything written would be borne into consideration.
Having already paid out the City of Long Beach on eight separate parking related occasions I replied that I felt alternative parking should be provided for resident’s at the production team’s expense. ‘There’s a metered parking lot by the beach at the end of the street’ I wrote, ‘why couldn’t an area be cordoned off and provided for resident’s’ ? I stuck the note back to the door with freshly peeled tape and went to work.
I returned later that evening to see that true to their word the piece of paper had been collected and feeling pleased with my efforts on behalf of
the neighbour’s thought nothing more about it, that is until three days later on the morning of the shoot that I’d completely forgotten about when I was woken at ten to six by what sounded like one of those giant Tonka Toy style dump trucks delivering building rubble into my living room. The sound actually turned out to be that of a large hydraulic earthmover pushing concrete crash barriers into position in the street below and when I finally left for work and turned to lock the door noticed that a piece of sand covered paper lay discarded in the corner of my balcony !
Since my last blog I am pleased to report that my adopted soccer team The LA Galaxy have progressed via a couple of exciting play off games that I’ve attended to reach the National Final of the MLS Cup. Mr Beckham has been performing in the play off games as though his life has depended on Galaxy success, as if to justify to the boo boys of a couple of months ago that he does actually really care and judging by what I saw of the England versus Brazil game on Saturday morning I’d
say he is well worth a place in the squad for South Africa 2010.
The final against an underdog Real Salt Lake side who entered the play offs on the back of a losing record is on Sunday afternoon in Seattle. Keep your fingers crossed and check the teletext on Monday morning.
As the weekend approaches it’s travel time again. A weekend in San Francisco taking in a Tiesto concert beckons tomorrow and the following weekend, a four dayer due to the welcome presence of Thanksgiving the possibility of another road trip. We’ll just have to wait and see.
N.B: **** Apparently the Pinta Island Tortoise is the world’s rarest living being with no apparent hope of rectifying the situation. There is only one specimen of the breed alive so next time you feel lonely just think of the poor old Pinta Island Turtle.
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JoJo
non-member comment
You boys made the best cavemen! You make me proud!