March 2, 2013
Day 8: Near Bombay Beach, CA to Cottonwood Campground
Highway 111 arcs to the northwest as it follows the curve of the Salton Sea's upper end. The road stays flat as ever, but as I go farther north and come closer to Mecca (the less important one), the rippled faces of the mountain ranges that stood 30 or 40 miles apart across the valley yesterday start to converge. Unless I want to head back to the west and hang out with a bunch of retired people in Palm Springs and hear about their medical problems, that means one thing: I'm about to start climbing again.
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Miles-long rows of palm trees, orange groves, and date farms keep me company on the way to Mecca. When I get there I find a town of a few thousand people that's more Mexican than most places in Mexico. Although the street signs are still in English, every business name and advertisement reads Spanish. I only recognize about a quarter of the brands on the shelves at the grocery store — err, make that el mercado. Both there and at the burrito shop across the street, the women behind the counter talk to me only in Spanish. Along with Eastern Kentucky, it's one of the few places where I've felt like a foreigner in my own country. But the burrito was delicious and I didn't even have to pay with pesos.
I have to stock up on food and water in Mecca because after I crawl up to 3,000 feet I'll be in Joshua Tree National Park. Unlike most national parks, like Yellowstone or Glacier, Joshua Tree doesn't have sprawling visitor centers, lodges, RV parks, laundromats, and stores full of the materials you need to make smores. I don't think the campground I'm aiming for today has showers, and I know for a fact that tomorrow's doesn't even have running water. I'd like to think that this is a philosophical choice, a conscious decision not to spoil one of America's great untouched areas of wilderness. But it probably has more to do with the fact that it's so damned hot here in the summer that no one with any sense at all comes around in June, July, and August. No vacationers means no vacationers' money, which means no amenities beyond a festering, wretch-inducing pit toilet or two.
After a few more flat miles alongside fields of strawberries and oranges, the road crosses over an irrigation canal and starts a long but gradual climb through a canyon and into the hills. At one point I see a sign that calls out the turnoff for Sheep Hole Trail. Sometimes on trips like these I see a local landmark with an unusual name and wonder where it came from. That's not the case here. Just in reading the name I feel like I know too much.
Most of the canyon feels like a sauna, because as the road bends left and right it sends me through what feels like a series of rooms. And with four walls blocking me in there's no path for the breeze to pass. The sweat pours with such force that I ride with a rag in my left hand and wipe my forehead with it every two minutes. So in the rare times I turn a corner and stumble into a channel of wind funneled down from a gap above I send up a cheer of thanks and ask for more.
For a few hours I motor up a constant but reasonable grade. But then it stops. And not in the good way. As I enter Joshua Tree, the road doubles in steepness. That means I work twice as hard to grind at less than half the speed. The climb becomes tougher still because it's now the hottest part of the day. The sun blasts down on the top of my head and takes away the pockets of roadside shade that helped keep me cool and composed through the morning. Yet even though the sweating moves beyond a lot and insane and on to how am I still alive?, I can't complain too much. I don't feel the need to puke or pass out or question the meaning of life like last week. And for the first time since the San Diego waterfront I have a tailwind to help me out.
I stop all the time. This gives me the chance to catch my breath, but also to reflect on the incongruous signs of the National Park Service — like the one that says Road May Flood, even though it's posted on the side of a mountain. I also have hours to study in detail the landscape of the Colorado Desert. The creosote bush and bursage of the flats give way to mesquite, palo verde, smoke tree, desert willow, and ironwood. The rocky slopes and peaks above me are dotted with ocotillo and brittlebush. They sound beautiful, those evocative names. The Spanish must have thought so, because they called this desert La Palma de la Mano de Dios — the hollow of God's hand. Call me an unappreciative bastard if you want, but I don't see it. The place seems not so different from most other American deserts, which is to say brown and rough and beaten down from a million-year-long assault from the blazing heat and harsh rays of the sun. The hollow of God's hand? Over the top.
The beauty of Joshua Tree doesn't reveal itself at the Cottonwood Campground either. It's a Saturday night, which means an uninterrupted stream of dumb or hilarious or offensive things said by other campers. Most of it comes as semi-drunk banter from the eight Filipino frat boys from the Los Angeles area who are set up at the campsite across the way. A select sample: "Whoa, who farted? Was that you?" ... "And that's why it's ok to stab homeless people." ... "Excuse me miss, is that pubic hair sticking out of the top of your spandex?" ... "Aw, I dunno. There's a lot of gay dudes in Austin. They're pretty flamboyant, too." ... "Oh dude, there's a turd back there. I think it's, um, yeah dude, it's human! It's huge! That's crazy. It kind of looks like one of our sausages." ... "You met Lisa. She was born here and her English is fucking terrible! She's like a FOB man, for real. I thought she just got here from China or something." Dinner wraps up with the if-you-could-bang-any-celebrity-who-would-you-bang game.
I lay my head down around 6:00 to rest for a few minutes. From the campsite behind me I hear a dad trying to make dinner with his ten-year-old son and three of his son's friends.
"Johnny, don't spit on our food!" he snaps out in exasperation. "Why'd you spit on our food? That's disgusting."
I hear it, I laugh at it, and then my eyes shut and I'm dead to the world until morning.
Today's ride: 47 miles (76 km)
Total: 297 miles (478 km)
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