Looks like the ranch job won't start until the first of February, so I'll have some time.
I camped on the periphery of the RTR for a week (1/9-1/16), but kept to myself in the mornings, stayed in town until 20:00 most days, then hung around camp until midnight or so. I did stay up to 3:30 one night, engaging in lively discussion and debate with fellow young adventurers as a giant log burned completely to ashes. It was enjoyable while it lasted. In the interests of fairness, I did stop by one of the 10:00 seminars, but did not find it interesting.
I stopped by the Big Tent RV show and waded through the crowd up and down the aisles, but was disappointed to find only a couple employers represented there. The rest of the booths were dedicated to gimmicks for rich RVers to throw away their money on, like magnetic healing bracelets and 12 volt beverage coolers.
On the way up to Parker, the saguaro cacti disappear and the rocks turn to sand. I turn in at a makeshift gate down a wash and engage a half-buried washing machine with my .30-30. Being the responsible target shooter that I am, I pick up the casings as well as some spent hulls left from a previous shooter.
At the Parker Walmart, Nicole and Samantha sit in the bed of their truck with their four dogs, holding a sign saying "Out of Gas". I offer to fill their gas can. They are trying to get to Quartzsite to get a job with the vendors at the rock shows and connect with friends already working there. Nicole is from Iowa, while Samantha is from Georgia. I quip that they must have spent all their gas money on dog food, and they laughingly agree. They fill their truck with the gas can and drive off down 95.
The town of Parker is very quiet compared to the bustle of Quartzsite. The "downtown" area is lifeless on a Saturday afternoon, bypassed by the boulevards and the chain restaurants outside the city limits. The town is on land possessed by the Colorado River Indian Tribes, but only 23% of residents identify as Native. The CRIT prohibits camping, but BLM land is only a couple miles out of town. I read online about free BLM camping down Shea Road, then drive through the unfenced BIA land (all posted "No Camping") in the shadow of a large, forbidding black mountain topped with radio antennas. There is a stop sign at the railroad crossing far ahead on the plain, but I can see no trains are coming and decide to run it. I see too late the tracks are elevated, and bounce over them with a tremendous lurch.
There are a few RVers on the BLM land, but not many. Most of them camp by themselves down in the wash, hiding inside their rigs rather than enjoying the cool desert evening and beautiful sunset. I drive down the wash on sandy roads that roll like ocean waves, setting my truck to dancing when I hit a certain speed. This is where the world-famous Parker off-road races are held. After looking in vain for the ideal campsite, I get back onto the pavement. Just before Shea Road climbs out of the wash onto the level desert plain, there is a 50 foot deep cut through an alluvial fan. On the other side of the fan, the wash cuts a very steep bank, leaving a small flat area on top. A track leads to the top. I turn on 4x4 HIGH and rocket up the track to the top, then set up my tent for the night. Walking around my truck, I notice a van camped almost directly below me on the wash, with a fire of twigs lighting up the area. I call out a howdy. I've got four wheel drive, might as well use it, I remark. A guy's voice replies hesitantly in the affirmative. There are no more words exchanged for the rest of the night. Soon after, the other campers' fire burns out and they go inside their van for the night. I sit on my chair overlooking the wash and read a John Grisham novel. If I kicked the gravel, pebbles would rain on their van roof, but of course I didn't. I make a fire of dead twigs and a true crime novel soaked in kerosene. The half moon lights up the wash and the plain, but the black mountain behind me remains dark. The lights of Parker are visible on the horizon, and the lights of several campers are visible on down the wash.
I rise with the sun next morning in time to see it color the rough, low mountains in the distance blood-red. The black cliff behind me remains in shadow. As the sun rises, the color bleaches, and the day begins getting warm. Another ramen and Knorr meal, 1200 calories of carb fuel. An orange the only concession to health.
I descend the road easily, and head into town for morning worship. The First Baptist Church is as quiet and sleepy as the rest of the town. After church, I decide to drive the road up Black Peak, the name for the black mountain standing alone and in stark contrast to the flat sandy plain surrounding it. I turn off into the desert, eventually finding the road to the top of the mountain. The yellow sand turns black, then turns rocky. A truck is parked at the base of the hill, although the gate is open. The track gets progressively steeper as it ascends a wild and lifeless gorge of black boulders. I keep my truck in 4x4 HIGH. Concrete paving replaces gravel, and my tires slip on the pebbles on the paving. High bumps redirect flash floods off the road, and scritch on my under-carriage. My temperature gauge remains normal, especially as I rarely exceed 10 mph. The grade approaches 45% in parts, according to a later examination of topo maps. There is no way to go but up. Half-way up, I pass a girl making her way down the mountain carefully. She does not look accustomed to walking on steep terrain. I continue my painfully slow road up. Eventually, the road levels out somewhat, and I park at the top next to half a dozen side-by-sides. A family group is having a picnic at the base of the towers. I exchange a few greetings. The view is spectacular under the fierce sun and cool breeze. The rough canyons of California and Arizona form a backdrop to the west. Parker and Parker Dam are perched next to the blue Colorado. To the north, the flat desert valley runs into haze, bisected by the ruler-straight US-95. To the east is nothing but more valleys and mountains. The desert floor looks brown and lfieless from up here, wave of sand frozen in motion. The flat gravel parking area abruptly ends in a sheer cliff over which trash of every kind has been dumped. A dropped rock will fall for three seconds, then bounce its way down the mountain nearly all the way to the bottom.
After an afternoon of reading, I begin descending the mountain in 4x4 LOW, 1st gear, a white knuckle descent. A concrete and gravel road, descending into an abyss barely lit by the sun. Other than a little slipping, my tires grip the broken pavement well, and I barely have to use the brakes to maintain a speed of 3 mph.
As night approaches, I look for a unique campsite. Driving down the irrigation canal levee along the Colorado, I come out near the bridge to California, which is just high enough to fit my truck under. I choose to stay the night there under the 6 foot high bridge ceiling, a half inch of clearance for my roof rack. No one bothers me.
I walk into town, then down to the Walmart. A beat-up Nissan pickup truck pulls up for the night, driven by a wild-looking couple. The top of the truck is covered by dozens of trash bags of belongings lashed to the roof, and the suspension is about as low as it could go. Several other more staid-looking RVs and vans are also parked. The streets are free of pedestrians at 10 pm, though there is steady truck traffic on the main roads. A kid is using a backpack blower to blow dust out of a parking lot into a side street, at 10 pm on a Sunday. The parking lot is barely lit by streetlights and empty except for him.
In the morning, a few locals are fishing on a sandbar accessible from the California side. I head down to the library, which is closed for MLK Day. A distraught guy walking a dog comes up to my truck.
"Is the library open?"
"Nope, but the WiFi works."
"Oh, the library isn't what I need. Some guy was attacked with a tire iron in front of my house. I was on the crapper when I heard screaming and ran outside. I saw a guy on the sidewalk, blood running down his face. I need to go to the police station."
"Crazy."
He walks off.
I love peaceful small towns.
1474: The sun rising over the Plomosa Mtns after a cold night at Quartzsite.
1475: The RTR, Q, and the Dome Rock Range from my Quartzsite campsite.
1477: Dome Rock, as far up as I could get, west of Quartzsite.
1479: The rocks turn red in the morning sunlight, from my Parker campsite.
1480: The van camper is out of sight at the bottom of the hill. A long ridge of Black Peak is the background.
