My winter wanderings

[USExplorer]

Yesterday, I visited Alamo Lake with my ranch host and his girlfriend. Alamo Lake is a remote flood control reservoir in western Arizona, 20 straight-line miles from the nearest paved road. The Arizona state parks website describes it as a "crystal clear lake...surrounded by mountainous terrain speckled with brush, wildflowers and cacti". After bumping 40 miles down gravel roads and detouring at an impassable river ford, we stop at the bottom of a muddy hill strewn with ugly little bushes. The shore of the lake is foul, littered with dead eyeless fish and beer cans. The murky water is topped with brown foam. Undaunted, we put the canoe in and begin paddling out on the lake. The scenery is very average, except for the white bathtub ring 40 feet above the lake level. Fisherman and ducks fish on the lake surface while others simply motor around and relax. We dock on a ramp near the dam and hike up to the dam itself. A security guard scrutinizes us but does not say anything. Walking back along the road, I have to squeeze through a fence posted against trespassing. The lake overlook parking lot charges seven dollars per car, a fee that no one pays. Down around another gate posted with the familiar US Government NO Trespassing sign, a burro trail leads back down to the canoe. We paddle back across the lake and head back into Wikieup. The dusty road coats me with a reddish-brown coating, as I am riding in the truck bed. A river fording taken too fast gives me a cold shower. In Wikieup, I talk to two weathered ranchers chatting outside the trading post. One of them tells me his wife hails from the same town in New Jersey that my grandmother lives in. Unfortunately I do not catch his name.

Today we planted 400 more willows in the riverbed. 

1591: Here in Arizona, far away from civilization, bridges are a rare novelty. This is the main road for this section. The road turns soft under the river. 
1592: The Arizona sky makes Lake Alamo look somewhat appealing. 
1593: A view of Lake Alamo, from atop the dam. 
1594: This trickle of drainwater is known as the Bill Williams River.

 

[USExplorer]

Yesterday, we got the last of the willows in the ground, thus completing my gig at the ranch. After dinner, I decided to visit the Kaiser warm springs. I parked under the bridge and hiked down into the canyon with the last light of day. The crescent moon provided enough light to walk without a flashlight, except where the canyon walls were steep enough to block the rays. Along the way, I rouse a couple of cows and pass a Nissan X-terra with Arizona plates parked in the wash, empty. I had the hot springs to myself. The water was about body temperature, and the pool was deep enough to relax in up to one's ears. I enjoyed some relaxation after a long days work, though I did not relax my alertness much in the dark, unfamiliar surroundings. All to no point, as no one human or bovine manifested their presence. The moon crept below the canyon wall. I was reluctant to venture out into the cold desert night but the time grew late and it was time to go home. Interesting fact: With a dewpoint of 19 degrees here in the desert, the air feels about that temperature when you are wet, despite the thermometer reading 60 degrees. 

The next morning, we water the cottonwood trees, hauling buckets across the desert as the water trailer blew a tire. This afternoon, I decided to take a hike up to "The Nipple", a small protrusion on the ridge behind the ranch that looks like, well, a nipple. It is located in a position of prominence 700 feet above the Big Sandy River valley. On the hike up, I get sidetracked up a side wash and end up picking my way across the gravelly desert to the bouldery canyon that climbs up a natural culvert. Vegetation includes creosote bush, burro bush, palo verde, and the occasional saguaro. As the canyon gets shallower near the top, I carelessly approach a field of teddy bear cholla, and promptly get a segment stuck in my leg. I painfully extract it barb by barb with my pocketknife, curse the plant, and continue on extremely carefully up the canyon. I still get numerous cholla sections stuck to my boots, which I flick away with my knife. One even pierces through a nylon ventilation section on my boot. The sun disappears behind those white lumpy sky sheets common in less arid climates and offers me some relief. I catch a glimpse of the rock formation and head over a saddle, traversing the ridgeline. The nipple itself is fifty feet of sheer rock, so I stay at the base and fire two blasts of birdshot to signal my ranch host. He takes a picture and returns fire with his .22, but I do not hear it due to the wind. 

The entire Big Sandy River valley is visible below me, with half a dozen isolated ranches scattered along it. The river itself has very little flow, but Burro Creek empties its significant flow into the Big Sandy a few miles downstream. The desert looks green and verdant. Trucks drive occasionally down Signal Road, raising clouds of dust behind them except where they ford the river. Route 93 is visible behind several more rows of hills to the east. Burro Peak sits to my right, its craggy sloped rock face rising six hundred feet above the Nipple. I fire a couple rounds of 9mm through my shotgun adapter in celebration, collect my casings and shells, and begin my descent. I follow the wash through the teddy bear cholla patch, all the way down to the river, right across from the ranch. The entire hike takes about four hours. 

I will be leaving the ranch tomorrow morning and hitting the road sometime soon after.

1596: The ranch from 700 feet up.
1599: Downhill and downriver. The little weird green-headed cacti are the nasty teddy bear kind. 
1600: A row of lichen-covered rocks. Note the hole eroded through the rock pile in the bottom right. 
1601: The Nipple, from its base, flanked by palo verdes. 
1603: The Nipple in the light of the setting sun, taken from the ranch cabin. The approach is behind the rock wall sloping down to the right.

 

[Silver]

" fire two blasts of birdshot to signal my ranch host. He takes a picture and returns fire with his .22 "

Why did you fire your gun ?
Sounds like you're fitting well in your new job & surroundings !

Beats sitting in traffic for an hour eh

 

[USExplorer]

@Silver: The mountain peak was nearly a mile from the ranch house, but within line of sight. I needed an effective way to signal my arrival, as cell phones don't work out there and we don't have two way radios.

On Sunday morning, I packed my few belongings and said farewell to my ranch host. He replied, snarkily, "See you next year!" "In your dreams," I shot back. Plenty of sarcasm helped us work through all the setbacks and tedium of the tree planting, but as much as I enjoyed the work, I had no plans to return. 

I drove through the Big Sandy River one last time, then turn north on US 93 to visit my friends at the Wikieup Bible Church. turning south on US-93. At the Burro Creek canyon bridge (388 feet over the creek), I stopped to take some pictures, walking past the "Pedestrians Prohibited" sign. Strangely, the rust-colored bridge is the new one (2005), while the silver one is older (1966). On south through already traveled country, the Joshua tree forest parkway, the gradual climb in elevation and disappearance of the greasewood shrubs. The first time I drove this section, there was snow on the ground; now, the temperature is 72 degrees. I turn off on Arizona Route 71, a two-lane leading over the 3400 feet Merritt Pass down through a wide desert plain. The temperature increases as I lose elevation, the sun shining strongly and warmly. Route 71 ends at Route 60 in Aguila, a run-down farming town. I get gas in Aguila and continue on down the valley, strong gusty winds and the occasional dust devil clouding the clear sky. The valley road is flanked on both sides by rough mountains. More farm towns; Gladden, Wenden, Salome, Hope. A sign at the latter reads "You are now beyond Hope." After passing Brenda, US-60 merges with I-10 through the Plomosa Pass. Up ahead, a familiar sight, the sprawl of Quartzsite in a barren bowl. The thermometer now reads 83 degrees. 

Quartzsite is a whole lot less crowded than back in January during the RTR. Even the hippies have left for the higher elevations. The rock show still attracts a trickle of people, but it will be shuttered in a couple more weeks, and then the town will go into full hibernation. I decide to check out the Isaiah 58 ministry, which offers free meals and showers. I am too late for the meal but not for the Bible study with a Vietnam veteran pastor. For the night, I park my truck off Dome Rock Road and read a book by headlamp. A fellow van camper raises a blazing fire a short distance away, but I am overly cautious due to the lateness of the hour and do not make acquaintance. 

The next morning, I drive to the library to update this log, but the parking lot is empty. A biker tells me that it is President's Day. Durn holidays. I drive back to the Isaiah 58 ministry and wait in line for the shower. Also waiting are two long-haired biker-looking guys with huge backpacks. One of them calls himself Coyote. Coyote and his traveling partner are following the route of Alexander Supertramp ("Into the Wild") across the West. They plan to go down to the Colorado River in Ehrenberg and take a break from thumbing the open road. I tell them that I plan to go to Slab City. They had heard of it but had no idea where it was or how to get there. As we were talking, an old hobo sitting in a pickup bed nearby finishes writing in a piece of paper and hands it to them. 
"You want to go to Slab City? Here's how to get there." They thank him. 
The pickup driver says, "I used to be just like you, seeing the country with a backpack." The wife of the pickup driver returns from her errand and they drive off. The shower line moves foward by one. 
Coyote takes a clunky rocket stove out of his backpack and leaves it on a bench for anyone to take. "I never could get this thing to work anyway."
We discuss the relative merits of various states for free-spirited adventure. Coyote says, "I didn't care much for Mexico."
"Did you raft the Colorado like Alex did?"
"No, we skipped that part. It's too dangerous nowadays, you'll get caught and thrown in jail."
It is my turn to use the shower. There is plenty of hot water. I finish quickly and signal to the next man in line.
"So, where are you going?" I restart the conversation.
"We'll relax down by the Colorado River, then go to that Salacity that you mentioned."
"Slab City."
"Yes, Slab City, and then we'll take Route 1 up the California coast."
"I didn't care much for California. Too many cops asking for ID there." Another hitchhiker chimes in.
"I wouldn't let that discourage you. Best to know your rights," I reply.
"You try that in California, and you will be thrown out." He continues.
I drop the matter. "So where after California?"
"We'll hitch rides all the way up to Bellingham Washington, then take a ferry to Alaska."
"Sounds like a great adventure. Well I'll be heading down to Yuma today. Maybe I'll see you in Slab City."
"Good luck."
I walk back to my truck. Along the way, I greet an older guy who is living out of his Expedition. Appears I'm not the only one who finds such an SUV useful. By the time I decide to ask him about his setup, he drives off.
I hit 95 south, quickly exiting Quartzsite. Miles down the road, I realize I am out of water. Of course, I had a couple gallons of emergency water, but my regular drinking water reservoirs (a couple of two liter bottles) were empty. I see a sign for Stone Cabin (Randy's Hamburgers), and pull in at a clump of trailers in the desert. A few travelers are eating lunch there. I ask the proprietor, Randy, if I could fill up my water bottles.
"Water is gold here. I've drilled several wells, the last one 850 feet down, thousands of dollars."
"That's a deep well."
"Nope, its a dry well. Never hit any water. I have to truck water in from Quartzsite."
"I'll pay you a dollar for the water then."
"I don't need a dollar. I just want you to know that water is gold here." He fills my bottles from the sink. All around the carnival-looking trailers is parched desert. Sickly-looking saguaros stand over creosote bushes, the spacing very wide between everything. "Where are you coming from?"
"I just came down from volunteering at a ranch up in Wikieup. Planting thousands of trees. I'm heading down to Yuma."
He hands me my bottles back. "You have a great day now."

I pass by the border patrol checkpoint and crest a small hill topped by cell and radio towers. Up here, I cook a deluxe mac & cheese lunch I picked up for 75 cents from a Quartzsite grocery. The same meal would cost two-fifty at Walmart. There is a good breeze on top, so strong that it blows out my cookstove every time I open my driver door. I roll the window down a few inches and reach inside to access my portable kitchen. 
Farther on, a sign indicates that I am entering the Yuma Proving Ground. The hills here are as barren as can be; even the creosote bushes are dead in places. I pass the Palm Canyon turnoff, but not knowing about its uniqueness pass it by. The Castle Dome Mountains stand on my left. I do turn off for the Castle Dome City ghost town. A sign indicates that by entering Yuma Proving Ground I am consenting to a search of my truck. It also prohibits unregistered firearms. I pass dozens of signs warning against trespassing, fences only around the facilities. An invisible border, and I enter the Kofa National Wildlife Refuge. This unusual wildlife refuge protects a giant barren desert wilderness, home of bighorn sheep. Free dispersed camping is allowed in the few regions that are not wilderness. The nearest facilities are dozens of miles away. The ghost town is fenced off and artificially preserved on private land, and a business charges a fee to access it. Mounds purported to be the graves of fee-skipping trespassers decorate the entrance, along with a warning, "Don't make us come over here!" Several Canadian snowbirds tour the ruins. 

I decide to continue on to Yuma. The thermometer now reads 88 degrees. After more miles of driving, I exit the proving ground and enter a land of improbable lushness, rank with the smell of growing things. The black hills provide a stark contrast to the flat, wet fields of lettuce, cabbage, and other green veggies being irrigated with hundreds of sprinklers. To be continued...

1604: Burro Creek Campground, and the low bridge. 
1605: The high bridge, old and new.
1606: Burro Creek canyon from the bridge. Water flow is low this time of year.
1608: Route 71, looking east toward intersection with US-93. 
1609: Rows upon rows of sprinklers near Aguila, draining water supplies to feed America's salad addiction.

 

[USExplorer]

Due to all of the sprinklers, the humidity was rather high, and the air felt more like Florida than Arizona. After driving aimlessly through the farm country, I stopped at a farm stand and bought a giant bag of grapefruits for five dollars. I found the West Wetlands Park and parked there. For one of the driest cities in the country, Yuma is very liberal with its water. There were many trees in the public park, as well as grassy fields. A boat ramp led down to the Colorado River, which was not very large for all its miles of travel. As the sun set in the trees, I walked up along the sandy banks through the rehabilitated wetland region. The roar of Interstate 8 across the river in California pervaded the air, and trash from homeless people littered the floodplain. A punk kid of indeterminate gender crouched in the sand, engrossed in a clump of willow shoots. It didn't look up when I walked past, the roar of music in it's headphones all-encompassing.

For its size, Yuma retains a small-town feel. The I-8 boulevard functions as the commercial strip, brightly lit signs stretching down the trafficlight-ridden road. The parkland continues on the Colorado River, where a group of hippie kids and their dogs watch me with suspicion. Up ahead, a lit sign proclaims "Ocean to Ocean Highway: Yuma" in orange letters. A single-lane truss bridge crosses the river there. At the time of its construction, it was the only bridge over the Colorado for 1200 miles. An informational booklet tells how during the Great Depression, LA's police chief James Davis instituted a checkpoint at the bridge, which turned away Okies and Arkies with "no visible means of support". It was nicknamed the "Bum Blockade". Many migrants ended up settling down in Yuma. Under the bridge, a white pickup truck driven by a girl pulls into the parking lot, thumping a Latin beat. Later, two guys run up from the river, carrying rafts over their heads. They get in the truck, and it drives away. 

Yuma's Main Street is more like a plaza than a thoroughfare. It is moderately successful, with a fair share of people populating the bars and restaurants for a Monday night. A traveling worker sleeps uncomfortably on a park bench downtown, a suitcase for a pillow. The night is warm, the asphalt radiating heat out and keeping the air temperature above 80 degrees. An ambulance screeches up to the historic San Carlos Hotel and wheels a patient out on their way to the hospital. The few cops out patrolling are not looking for trouble. 

For the night, I cross the river into California and drive to the Quechan Casino. I decide to see why there are hundreds of cars in the parking lot on a Monday, and step inside a casino for the first time. Inside, disappointingly, is nothing but a giant room full of slot machines. A room full of middle-aged to elderly video game addicts, being served soliticiously by Indian staff. The lack of security indicates that very little big prizes are won here. They charge three dollars a night for dry camping in the RV lot. I head out on back roads out of the reservation. Due to a zig-zagging state line, I cross back into Arizona and out of the reservation. I drive an access road down to some wetlands by a dry field. The hour is late, but trucks roar by on the gravel levee road with regularity throughout the night, and distant gunshots start up early in the morning (doves, not gangsters). The wetlands create a cool air pocket at the foot of the levee, and my truck thermometer reads 53 degrees in the morning. No one has bothered me, although the occasional mosquito buzzed in my open, unscreened window.

The next morning, I bump out over the levee road and cross back into Yuma, parking near the library. Parking meters do not exist in this town. A homeless man washes his face by a spigot in the library green. He has spent the winter in Yuma all his life. He begins ranting about how organized religion is a tool of the state, then abruptly excuses himself and walks away with his Family Dollar cart full of belongings. I cook instant oatmeal and eat two grapefruits. I walk downtown and pick up a map of Yuma, then arrive back at the library just as it opens. 

I like Yuma, it is a very unpretentious town. The temps should drop off in a couple days when a cloud system comes through. First I have to get some food (I tapped into my emergency fruitcake rations last night), then I'll decide if I want to go to Slab City or not. 

1610: A coyote in broad daylight, along US-95 south of Quartzsite. 
1611: Some of the least friendly mountains I have ever seen. 
1613: 95 traversing the desert plain. The weather in February is just a taste of hell, err, summer.
1614: Trespassers graves. There is an empty one pre-dug for the next trespasser.
1615: Castle Rock Dome, in the Castle Rock Mountains. Contrast with the verdant green of the northern Sonoran Desert, where saguaros are lush and long-limbed.

 

[USExplorer]

1616: Food dump outside of Castle Dome City ghost town. The cans are blackened from the fierce sun but still relatively intact.
1617: The Gila River, a muddy ditch collecting agricultural runoff, outside of Yuma.
1618: Contrast.
1619: A shut-down suspension bridge across the Gila River outside of Yuma, one of the longest such bridges in Arizona.
1621: The Colorado River from the I-8-BL bridge in twilight. California (Fort Yuma I.R.) on the left, Arizona on the right. Up ahead is the tasteless I-8 bridge, the Ocean-to-Ocean Highway bridge, and a railroad bridge.

 

[Silver]

"effective way to signal my arrival,"  Why do you need to signal your arrival?
U may get lost?
"as much as I enjoyed the work, I had no plans to return. "
Why, too tedious?  Dont plan on returning to the area?

Planting trees sounds a lot better than what I'm doing now
"Isaiah 58 ministry, which offers free meals and showers."
What kind of food?  You live an adventurous life!

” Bible study with a Vietnam veteran pastor"  How was it?

"I'll pay you a dollar for the water then."
I think in Cali if you're a customer @ the gas station
(buying gas or whatever)  you're allowed free water to fill up your radiator or such.

" giant bag of grapefruits for five dollars."  i prefer grape-fruit to oranges.
"three dollars a night for dry camping in the RV lot"
Not bad for guarantee of undisturbed night.

 

[USExplorer]

On the way out of the library, I offer a grapefruit to the guy I talked to earlier. He refuses; "I've picked enough grapefruits in my time...but thanks anyway."

As I cannot do the grapefruit diet, I headed down to one of Yuma's three Walmarts to get some less healthful sustenance. I also fill my water bottles. On the way out, the greeters asks to see a receipt for the bottles. I hold up the 2 liter water filled bottles and ask, jokingly, "Does it look like soda?" The greeter looks embarrassed to have asked in the first place, and I walk out. I get stuck in traffic going back to the city center. Due to the low humidity, I refuse to use the air conditioner, although the temperature has broken the ninety degree mark. I park in a local park in the shade of a tree and set off down the sandy Colorado River footpath. Campers lounge outside their RVs across the river in California. In front of me, a short hairy wild-looking guy rises up from his seat on the riverbank and walks in front of me before veering off to a side trail like a herded cow.

Near the boat ramp, a Hispanic family plays on the small Colorado River beach. None of them go in the water, which does not look clean. A bearded guy with a gray ponytail and clip-on sunglasses sits on a bench with his two dogs, looking into the river. I strike up a conversation; his name is Mike, and he is a full time vagabond, living off a pension. He has spent the last six winters in Yuma, enjoying the warm weather and relaxed atmosphere of the town. We discuss TEOTWAWKI; Mike had just read "Lights Out", a book by Ted Koppel detailing the vulnerability of our power grid to an EMP attack. (Interestingly, there is another "Lights Out", a novel by David Crawford which involves the aftermath of, you guessed it, an EMP attack.) We discussed the growing vandwelling movement, as well as the increased use of formerly remote public lands. Mike spends the summers in the national forest near Flagstaff, and laments that it has been "discovered" by outsiders, resulting in heavier restrictions on camping. When I mention my intention to visit Slab City, Mike enthusiastically agrees. "You would fit right in at Slab City; that place is full of folks who like you have escaped from the mainstream to live a more free and flexible life." 

The sun sets, and Mike excuses himself, as he cannot drive after dark. I continue walking down the river, just like I did the first night I arrived in Yuma. There are a few people out taking walks around the park. I walk back to my truck and drive it under the Ocean to Ocean Bridge. A bicycle hobo in a trench coat and baseball cap smokes a pipe and talks to a fellow hobo in a park pavilion. Other than several large bottles of water strapped to his bicycle, he carries all his possessions in his pockets. A group of rowdy kids throw small firecrackers into the river, then lose interest and run off. Various characters sit in their cars or under pavilions late into the night, most of them untalkative. By 10:30, I decide to park downtown for the night. The self-styled "coolest bar downtown" contains half a dozen rowdy young drunks, and I pass on by. A bum slowly munches an apple on a main street bench, watching me impassively. Everyone else is sleeping, including the cops. I fall asleep in my truck in the city parking lot a stone's throw from downtown, despite the random night-time traffic and the interstate noise. 

Early in the morning, while it is still dark, a guy sweeps up the trash in the parking lot, not caring a whit that I was sleeping in my truck. I get up with the sun, go down to the park to use the facilities, and hit I-8 out of town. Most of the Quechan reservation is unfarmed scrubland laced with canals.  I turn off on the Algodones exit, parking for free on the dusty shoulder a half mile from the Mexican border, just short of signs proclaiming a minimum $199 fine for parking on the roadside. A giant parking lot near the border run by the Quechans charges six dollars a car, and a steady stream of leg-weary snowbirds pours in and pays the fee...to be continued.

 

[USExplorer]

...for convenience. I join the stream and walk through the turnstile into Los Algodones, Baja California, Mexico, the northernmost town in the country. As soon as we cross, dozens of doormen for opticians and dentists invited the passing Americans into their spotless offices. I allowed the first one to lead me into an eye doctor's office. One hundred sixty dollars for polycarbonate-lensed glasses, not such a bargain after all. The streets were lined with vendors, their pavilions turning the sidewalk into a dim tunnel of wares from which a passerby is constantly requested to peruse and purchase. Los Algodones exists because of winter vacationers. I got a very thorough teeth inspection and cleaning for 25 dollars on a back road dentist shop. The receptionist gave me a form to fill out, and I left most of it blank; he didn't care. After I left, one of the nurses came running up behind me and handed me my receipt. 

The colorful town crowds right up against the American border fence, which is a composite of rusty metal sheets and poles. The border patrol prowls the wasteland on the US side. Away from the main streets is a mix of upper and middle class housing for the doctors and their employees. American license plates occupy over half the cars parked on the back streets. The line going back into America is long, but it moves rapidly. Two bored agents match faces with passports, ask for declarations, then wave each person through. 

Back up to I-8 through a flat desolate desert, with the Imperial Dunes on the horizon. I-8 surfs the dunes in long, gradual hills. I turn off on Grays Wells Road. A sign declares that everyone using the recreation area needs a permit. The gettin' place is closed, so I ignore it and continue on down the road. At this point, I-8 is in a valley, with high dunes rising on either side. The dunes are loose sand, mostly free of vegetation due to heavy use by dune buggies. I tediously climb one of the dunes to take some pictures. At the top, a gentle breeze blows a few grains of sand northward, part of the neverending dune migration. Later photographs will describe the dunes better than I can write.

Grays Wells Road (paralleling I-8) approaches the Mexican border. The black border fence is visible half a mile away over the now flat, sandy desert. I grab my camera and set off walking. Dune buggy tracks criscross the desert everywhere near the border. The fence is constructed of iron bars and is difficult to see through. A sign on the fence commands citizens to stay back 100 feet. As I near the fence, a Border Patrol vehicle slowly approaches along the border track. I take my pictures and walk away from the fence; he does not follow. Near my truck is a commemoration of the wooden plank road that first provided automobile access between Yuma and San Diego across this formerly trackless desert. Several worn-out sections of planking had been dug up and placed together in a cordoned off area to illustrate the concept of the road. Even brand-new, it must have been a rough ride. Farther on down the road, several campers are boondocking within a few hundred yards of the fence. This must be a low-risk crossing area due to the difficulty of slogging through miles of sand dunes. The road dead ends and I drive the five miles back to the exit, then continue on I-8, which soon leaves the worst/best of the dunes and hits the Imperial Valley. This part of the valley is desert; lots of open, sandy ground, soil that even creosote bushes have a hard time surviving in. I turn off onto Highway 98, picking up where I left off in Mobile Alabama. The desert abruptly transitions to irrigated farmland as I approach Calexico. The mountains on the horizon are barely visible due to heavy smog in the Mexicali conglomeration ahead. I enter Calexico just as school lets out, and stop at the library. The WiFi is not working, so I drive down to McDonalds and write the previous post. The blazing sun turns my truck into an oven, and after an hour of writing I post what I can and return to the defective connection in the library. 

The town of Calexico is 97% Hispanic and relatively prosperous due to its role as a wealthy suburb of Mexicali which just happens to be in Los Estados Unidos. Plenty of trees and lawns belie the fact that this town gets only three inches of rain a year. A maze of canals from the Colorado and New Rivers give this region a classic Southern California look.

I might walk into Mexicali tonight.

1624: California, here I come!
1625: My campsite on the other side of the bridge, still in Arizona.
1626: The border fence in Algodones, from the Mexican side.
1628: Lone flower in the dunes.
1629: Wind-sculpted ridges and valleys.

 

[USExplorer]

1631: The not-so-endless dunes turn into flat desert and farmland in the distance.
1632: Not to say they aren't big, though. My truck for scale.
1634: I thought I was gonna get in trouble for sure, but I must be too white for that.
1635: Mexico thru the fence.
1636: The old plank road.

 

[Yogidog]

Excellant what u are doing, u must be having an incredible time!  thanks for writing and posting it. I should have know calimexico was at the border. I like the bordertowns, drove to Puerto valarte SP, about five years ago.
I will read more of your posts when I have time, ii did camp by some of rainbow family in ocala, loved appalocia,  (sp) and stayed at steven foster

Thanks for writing so I can arm chair travel, so cool, have fun!

 

[USExplorer]

I park my truck for the evening six blocks from the border and walk the highway down. There is no pedestrian access at the automobile crossing; instead, pedestrians are routed into the U.S. Customs building. Downtown Calexico is bustling with cross-border shoppers, most of them filling trunks and truck beds with goods to be transported back into Mexico. Only a few yards away, the imposing border fence cuts Calexico off from its neighbor. Buildings and roads crowd up to both sides of the fence. I walk into the Customs building, cross two turnstiles, and exit in an underground shopping mall in Mexicali. A few soldiers casually slinging rifles keep watch over the baggage scanner. As I have no baggage, I worm my way through the crowd and out into the mall. I change a ten at a money changing station, then climb the stairs into the Mexican night. Homeless deportees from America sleep in their rags amidst the noise of the bustling downtown. As usual, there are street vendors everywhere, selling everything from water bottles to burritos to cheap jewelry. The tourism office is closed, so I do not have a city map, and rely on a cross-border water tower to keep my orientation. 

I soon walk out of the downtown into a quiet middle-class residential neighborhood, heavily fenced yards protecting passersby from ferocious guard dogs. No one is out walking the dimly lit streets, although the bustle of dinnertime is audible through numerous open doors, the temperature being in the upper 70s. I stop off at a barber shop to get a haircut for ninety pesos. The owner is a short, cheerful man who speaks good English. The majority of his clientele are Americans. He cautions against walking around the neighborhoods after dark, recommending that I stick to the downtown area. I tell him I've walked through Juarez after dark, Mexicali is nothing. He agrees, saying that petty crime is a problem in Mexicali but no kidnappings and shootouts like in other border cities. 

There is a lot more life here than in Ciudad Juarez, but still not many tourists. Near one of the plazas, a group of formally dressed musicians relax around their camper van. Cops drive up and down the streets in new Ford cars, lights flashing continually. In the park, two cops question some alcoholics. One of them demands to see a bottle of spirits. The bum reluctantly hands it to him, and he looks at it and hands it back. The bum then drinks it up in several gulps to prevent its confiscation.I turn away and am greeted a bored-looking guy in a dress shirt relaxing in the park. We both try out our poor grasp of each other's language. The cops here are asi-asi, he says. He asks where I live; I try to explain that I live in my truck, but I can't find the necessary words, other than no casa. Rather than get frustrated, I wish him a buenas noches and move on down the plaza, where I get hailed by a group of enthusiastic alcoholicos. They all shake my hand, and one of them pulls up his sleeve to reveal a tattoo. I ask narcotraficante, and the group devolves into accusations and denials, all in raucous good humor. The accused decides to take a nap, and the other two ask for pesos, uno o dos. I end up giving them each two pesos, upon which they shake my hand again and count their tecate money.

I walk away and get hailed by a scrawny guy who offers a boxer perrito (puppy) for fifty American dollars. I have my doubts about getting a puppy through customs, so I turn him down. He then starts asking for money for food, just a dollar, as he hasn't eaten in a while. He looks suspiciously like a tweaker, but he denies the use of any drogas. I give him a ten peso coin, and he loudly thanks me and runs off with the perrito under his arm, leash dragging on the ground. At this point, I'm thinking what the hell, I am senor moneybags to everyone here. I walk down a side street lined with putas. A very tall puta with a strangely deep voice takes my arm and starts leading me into a decrepit apartment building. I notice that my mind becomes detached and analytical when confronted with the unexpected. Once inside, I gently push her hand away and attempt to enunciate my issue, only being able to say, tu hombre? She is offended and speaks several sentences in rapid unintelligible Spanish. I walk off but she does not pursue, and I end up on a dark rundown street at the base of a rough crumbling bluff lined at the top with shacks in various states of collapse. A cop car drives down the road, lights flashing as always, and the cop greets me in passing. 

I decide to try a Tecate for 25 pesos, and find it not bad at all. Very loud recorded music was playing in the bar to a very small group of customers who were completely absorbed in themselves or each other. I decide to quit the city. There are no public restrooms in Mexicali, dirty alleys and gutted buildings serving the purpose. As the city gets very little rain the stench can be overpowering. Some private businesses charge five pesos for restroom use. I successfully find my way back to the crossing, walk through the very quiet mall, and cross into America. A dolled-up female border agent is all business as she orders me to empty my pockets and perform a series of manuevers with my pants that apparently would reveal any smuggled drugs. Another hulking border agent stands nearby and glowers at me. Eventually I am cleared and I exit into the busy Calexico streets. There is a public restroom here in the Friendship Park but the light is burned out and the urinal is clogged and overflowing onto the floor. 

To be continued.

1637: An unfarmed section of the Imperial Valley east of Calexico.
1638: A burnt offering to the Lord of Smog.

 

[USExplorer]

I choose to spend the night in the Walmart parking lot in Calexico. Around 4 am, the ragged remnants of an El Nino storm drop a little drizzle on my truck roof, too little to quantify. The next morning, the sky is obscured by clouds. I set out north on the 111, passing a sign that indicates that I am driving below sea level. Flat irrigated farmland stretches toward hazy mountains in the far distance, air smelling of fertilizer and green stuff. I stop in Brawley to get a county map and wash my clothes at a laundromat for $2.50. The Brawley library is located on a downtown plaza bisected by a four-lane boulevard. A guy hands out fliers advertising a church revival to the small crowd outside the library, which opens late at 11 am. The library firewall refuses access to this website, and the staff have no idea why. I decide to file my tax return after all, and the seven hundred dollar refund is a pleasant surprise.

I notice the New River flowing right outside town on the map, and drive down to the park for a swim. Just kidding, the New River is the most polluted river in the country, a foul slurry of one part Mexicali sewage, two parts Mexican agricultural runoff, and one part American runoff, with a little industrial dumping added in. I mistakenly mentioned a couple posts ago that the Imperial Valley gets water from the New River. This is not true; 100% of the water used here comes from the Colorado River through the All American Canal, and the New River is simply a drainage ditch. The river itself is fast flowing and completely opaque. The mudflats around it are encrusted with white fertilizer salts. The vegetation along the river is dead or dying due to the high salinity. A concrete dam creates the foulest waterfall in the West, huge piles of suds churning below the dam. This river is what is killing the Salton Sea. A homeless encampment of numerous shopping carts and a tent sits a few yards below the dam. 

I go back to my truck (parked in a riverside lot) and cook up a pasta meal and eat it with the last of the grapefruits smuggled into the state right under the noses of the fruit cops. Two jackasses in off road rigs drive down into the dirt lot and create a huge cloud of dust with burnouts and donuts, barely avoiding collision with the parked cars before tearing out down the road. 

I move up down to Calipatria, which at 184 feet below sea level is the lowest town in the United States, passing a huge cattle feedlot along the way. Fortunately, a strong breeze is blowing toward the lot as I drive past. The library in Calipatria has working internet, but it is closing early for staff training, so I am unable to complete my trip log. Keeping all the day's events in chronological order is a great brain exercise, as I refuse to write any notes or use any memory aids.

I drive up to Niland, which is high at only 141 feet below sea level. The town looks rather depressing. I find Main Street and drive through a few houses. After Niland, the irrigated lawns and fields are abruptly replaced by desert scrub, and Main Street changes name to Beal Street. An abandoned guard tower reads "Welcome to Slab City". I park at Salvation Mountain and take a few pictures with the other tourists. 

I drive down to the end of Beal Street and turn right, passing the library and internet cafe. On the other side of the nearby canal is the Chocolate Mountain Naval Reservation. I see lots of trash, run-down trailers ringed with concertina wire or tires or beer cans, dogs running loose. Back the other way is East Jesus and West Satan, angry signs discouraging entry into the former. Back out on Beal, the VIPer Lounge has live music. I park nearby in a big empty gravelly flat and walk over just as the setting sun turns the sky into fire. A very good five-piece band covers various classic rock songs, amplifiers and stage lights powered by a gas generator. It costs five dollars to get into the gate, but listening is free outside the fence. I park my chair next to a pickup truck with several old hippies on the tailgate. One of them turns to me and says, "This isn't what you expected in Slab City, is it?"
"I just got here an hour ago, I sure didn't expect the music to be this good," I reply.
"What did you expect, a church choir?" He asks jokingly.
"Nope, I thought there would only be hippies who couldn't play good."
"All the hippies are outside the fence." He introduces himself and his compatriots.
The band takes a break and a female guitarist plays some of her original acoustic songs. Cheap beer and joints are passed around outside. The hippies talk and argue through the music, and the pickup truck owner complains in a good natured way from his chair in the truck bed. The line-up changes again, and more original songs are played, the lyrics of which I can hardly catch a word of. Then the original line-up resumes and announces boogie time. Inside and outside the fence, people dance singly as the lead singer pours his soul into classic blues rock songs. By 8:30, the crowd has dwindled somewhat, and the band starts winding down. I go back to my truck around 9:15 and read a short story in my big book of them that I bought in Portland Maine. The music stops soon afterwards, and I turn in for the night, untroubled by the distant barking of dogs and rattle of cars tearing down the potholed road. The nearest campers are a few hundred feet away, scattered along the road and in the desert brush.

The next morning, I drive down to the Internet cafe. There is no power or access for the next two hours, so I decide to head to Calipatria. On the way out of Slab City, I clear out my front seat and pick up a hitchhiker heading for the highway.
"Thanks for the ride. North Carolina, a long way from home, aren't you?" 
"I don't live there, I travel around. What about you, do you live here in the Slabs?"
"I've been stuck here three years now. I'm getting ready to move out to Quartzsite Arizona, I've got a trailer out there."
"What do you mean by 'stuck here'? I thought everyone here loved this place?" I ask.
"Everyone tries to portray it like it's some kind of utopia." He goes on to detail his nightmare here, getting attacked by a free-range pitbull, then threatened with arson when he reported it to Animal Control and they took the dog in to be tested. He has continued to be threatened with beatings and tire slashings. "Slab City has a higher rate of arson than any other city in California. How can anyone believe that this is a peaceful and wonderful place? People get their tires slashed all the time, girls get raped down at the hot springs, the police are constantly coming in here to investigate crimes. One of my favorite YouTubers, nomadic fanatic, he shot a video of the trash, the side of Slab City they don't want you to see, and they slashed his tires and threatened him. Now he is being cyber-stalked wherever he goes." 
"Well, I'm not too concerned. I knew there would be some crazies here, but I can take care of myself," I counter.
"Wherever you have squatters staying illegally on government land, with no laws or rules, you will attract the bad types."
 By this time, I am stopped at the intersection with 111. The hitchhiker is standing out in the road talking to me, and cars pull around me to make turns. 
"I'm just going to stay here at the intersection and try to sell some jewelry from my pack here," he tells me. "Thanks for the ride."
"Take care." I drive on to Calipatria and use the library WiFi to update my travel log. The smell of the feedlot drifts in on the wind through the open door, the locals being immune to it. 
My dad will be arriving in San Francisco on the 28th. I will probably hit San Diego this weekend, then take 1 up the coast to San Francisco. 

1639: Sea level on 111 north of Calexico.
1640: The beautiful New River valley, viewed from the park's parking lot. In all honesty, the park was not too shabby, but it was well uphill of the foul river.
1641: The river itself. If sh|t flows downhill, this is the sewer of the Southwest.
1642: A veritable Niagara of untreated wastewater.
1643: A military pilot tries his hand at sky painting. The plane was out of sight just below the picture, moving fast.

 

[USExplorer]

1644: The welcome guardhouse.
1646: Salvation Mountain.
1647: Salvation Cave.
1649: From the top of the mountain.
1651: Sunset over the VIPer Lounge.

 

[Silver]

"walked through Juarez after dark, Mexicali is nothing."
- You wont find me in either places day or night.
"gently push her hand away and attempt to enunciate my issue,
only being able to say, tu hombre?"
- You certainly know how to befriend the locals eh
"senor moneybags to everyone here."
- I dont let street folk know I have $. Doesnt sound very safe.

" public restroom here in the Friendship Park but
the light is burned out and the urinal is clogged and overflowing onto the floor"
- sounds like a great place for an Ambush !

"decide to file my tax return after all, and the seven hundred dollar refund is a pleasant surprise."
- Good job ! I had to pay $ 65 , no refund . .

 

[USExplorer]

After making my last post, I drove back to Slab City to see what the Slabbers did in the daytime. A guy flags me down, and I give his rickety van a jump start. I then drive to the art community of East Jesus and check out the sculptures. Obviously, some psychedelic drugs were consumed in the making of the various art pieces. I see a gate with the word "NO" written on a piece of wood with spent shotgun hulls. I enter anyway, looking at the half-buried bus, bottle walls, and other recycled art. After a few minutes, a female voice calls out from a trailer, "Do you live here, or are you here with a tour group?"
"Nope."
"Then you have to leave, now."
"That's what I'm doing." I walk slowly and deliberately out the nearest gate. A sign on this gate says "Trespassers will be violated". Another says "Beware of the crazy artists". I leave a 50 peso note and a dozen spent .30-30 cartridges in the donation box. (East Jesus likes cartridge art, but I didn't see a single brass cartridge included in any art pieces.) A few other tourists are snapping pictures of the sculpture garden, but I left my camera in my truck.
Slab City Lows is where the RVers hang out for the winter. There are still hundreds of them boondocking in the vicinity of Tank Road, so named for two giant concrete water cisterns. Everyone mostly keeps to themselves. Slabbers under the hot sun are about as friendly as the desert they live in. There's no way I'm staying here for a week.

I hit Beal Road and pick up another hitchhiker. He is trying to escape L.A., so I drop him off on the 111 and head  north for the Salton Sea. Amidst a barren wasteland devoid of even salt-cedar, I pass through a Border Patrol checkpoint, then approach the Salton Sea. A ratty sign encourages tourists to turn toward Bombay Beach. This run-down town is the lowest elevated community in the United States. The air smells of long-dead fish and rotten algae. The town is populated by decrepit trailer houses lining potholed streets. I drive up the dike and down into the dirt parking lot on the other side. Another car is there, tourists snapping pictures of the ruins. The cries of gulls and other saltwater birds fill the air. The calm sea reflects the blue sky, waves lapping very gently on the foul shoreline. Untold millions of tiny shells form a loose sand on the beach above the mudflats, which are covered with the dessicated eyeless bodies of small fish. A concrete piling long under water now stands white and salt-encrusted, leading out into the sea. The sea is a murky brown, and its water sloshes against the rocks of the piling with a thick sound.

On the way back to my truck, a Land Rover stops on the track I am walking on. The retired couple inside ask about the place to find the most dead fish. I tell them there are only a few hundred dead fish in this section; they are disappointed. "Salton Sea tourism, the best dead fish in California," I joke. They laugh and continue driving down the beach road. Back in the parking lot, a young German man asks me in accented English about the condition of the beach. His girlfriend is holding a cloth over her nose and looking at the sea in disgust. I refer them back to the town, then drive out north along the 111. The Salton Sea State Recreation Area lines the eastern shore, not that there is any development pressure. Other than a few RVers with impaired olfactory senses, the shore is only home to extremely stunted salt-cedar shrubs and gulls. Two prominent snow-capped mountains stand in the distance, and I head in their direction.

The elevation gradually rises as I enter the bustling Coachella Valley, full of date palm plantations. Up here, the air is fresh and the ground is good. Soon, the date palms give way to the immaculately landscaped and heavily irrigated retreat towns of Palm Desert and Palm Springs, in the shadow of the rugged Santa Rosa and San Jacinto Mountains. To the east, the barren hills of Joshua Tree National Park are visible on the distant horizon. If the mountains are ignored, I could be in the Miami area. However, they cannot be ignored, as the nearly 11,000 foot summit of Mount San Jacinto towers over the 400 foot valley floor. 

I turn north on the Gene Autry Trail. The lush paradise is replaced by a dry scrubby wind-blown desert, signs warning of wind-blown sand everywhere. Hundreds of windmills capture the steady breeze forced through this natural wind tunnel. I completely did not expect open unfenced desert land in this part of California, but I find a parking spot next to a wash in the shadow of the snowy mountains and park facing the wind. A dirt biker roars by my truck, but otherwise I have the whole place to myself. I read a little, then set out walking in the light of the moon toward North Palm Springs, an interstate rest stop type of town, with four gas stations, a small strip mall, several fast food restaurants, and a motel. Outside is wind farms and open desert, the lights of Desert Hot Springs on one horizon, the lights of Palm Springs on another. The two tram lights of the Palm Springs tramway move up and down the black face of the San Jacinto mountains every few minutes. 

At the truck stop, a clean cut black man asks for change. I offer to buy him any food he wants, and he orders a nine dollar meal from Wendy's. He is homeless, stuck in this part of California for several years. Several years ago, he replaced alcohol with Jesus, and now he helps out those around him. When we step outside, he gives the meal to a young Hispanic woman who despite the 70 degree night is sitting curled up next to a vending machine by the truck stop entrance. She does not make eye contact with me or say anything. I continue walking down the road, back to my truck. My body is still on Mountain Time, so I go to sleep at 9:30 and wake up at 6:30. 

The next morning, I set out to tackle the great Los Angeles metropolitan area. I eat four peanut butter sandwiches, then climb on I-10 past the wind farms up to 2600 feet on the San Gorgonio Pass, one of the deepest in the country. Descending on the other side, I see naturally green grass on the scrubby hills for the first time since, hell, Texas maybe. I stop at Cabazon, a small mountain town, but the library does not open for several more hours, so I hit I-10 for the great Inland Empire. The San Bernandino Mountains form an impassable wall to the distant north. The vegetation in this area looks Mediterranean, unlike anything I've seen before in the country. 

Numerous city limits go by on the 10: Banning, Beaumont, Calimesa, Yucaipa, Redlands, San Bernandino, Colton, Bloomington, Ontario, Montclair, Pomona. As it is a Saturday, the traffic is light but still SoCal crazy, lots of passing in the right lane and rapid lane changes. I decide to stop in Covina to update my trip log. Covina has a well-planned downtown like Lake Havasu City. They have no parking meters. The main street from the 10 is called Citrus Boulevard, but this formerly third largest orange growing region now grows nothing but lawns. 

I will try to make it to the coast today and see the Pacific Ocean for the first time.

1652: Slab City Lows. In the distance are Mount San Jacinto (left), 80 miles away and 10800 feet high, and San Gorgonio Mountain (right), 100 miles away and 11500 feet high.
1653: The completely barren Salton Seashore.
1656: A close-up view of the Salton Sea beach. Note the large numbers of birds.
1657: A concrete piling, high and dry. The sea looks a beautiful calm blue in this shot.
1658: The actual color of the Salton Sea water.

 

[USExplorer]

1659: The 111 north of Bombay Beach, flooded and impassable. Actually, note that the mirage is the same color as the mountains.
1660: The Santa Rose Mountains, part of a national monument.
1663: The San Jacinto Mountains, now demonstrating the frivolity of the ants rushing around in the valley below.
1666: Wind farm!
1668: San Gorgonio Mountain. The top of this mountain is over 9000 feet higher than the valley I am parked in.

 

[USExplorer]

As I approach LA, I-10 gets slower and slower. By the time it hits the 101, we are crawling along. I snap a picture of the skyline just before I cross the Los Angeles River. The concrete trough holds only a trickle of water. I exit onto Fourteenth Street, and enter South Central LA, which does not hold a candle to Eastern ghettos like Detroit or Trenton. As I stopped at a red light, a panhandler asked me for some change or food. I turned off the car, got out, opened the back door, and handed him a stick of crackers. The other cars at the light looked at me in disbelief. The guy thanked me and walked back to his post on the median.

The weather is sunny and warm, almost 80 degrees, and people are out everywhere, mainly blacks and Hispanics. I turn onto Washington and parallel the sluggish I-10. Homeless encampments lined the sidewalks under the overpasses, some with semi-permanent structures. I took a zig-zag onto Adams and entered a middle class neighborhood with lush green lawns and picket fences. Traffic is not very heavy, although there are plenty of traffic lights. Several miles later I turned onto the heavily traveled Venice Boulevard and passed through Culver City, which does not look hard-up at all. The road passes through several more unremarkable neighborhoods before reaching its namesake, the Venice neighborhood. 

I park at the Venice library, which is on the main street half a mile from the beach. There are many empty spaces in the lot, which had me concerned about strict enforcement of parking by non-patrons. I needed to see the Pacific anyway, so I took my camera and set out down to the Venice boardwalk. The town itself is densely crowded, with parking a prized commodity. The cool ocean breeze perfectly complemented the warm sun. Tourists and locals of every age, ethnicity, and association crowded the beach and the boardwalk. I climbed the sand berm for my first glimpse of the Pacific Ocean, a vast expanse of blue water dotted with numerous sailboats and scintillating in the afternoon sun. The Santa Monica Mountains formed a distanct backdrop to the waves crashing on a stone abutment in the distance. I have reached the end of my westward journey.

From what I hear, this is a pretty wild place at night, having begun gentrification a while ago but stubbornly hanging on to its quirky identification. Like its Italian namesake, it also has a few canals. After I find an appropriate parking spot for a reasonable price, I will have more to say about the city.

1670: My campsite last night.
1672: San Bernandino Mountains in the background, ugliness in the foreground.
1675: Downtown LA from the 10, a drive by shooting. If I visit I will have to rush my coastal highway trip, so I pass it by.
1677: Part of a homeless encampment in South Central.
1678: The greatest body of water on Earth, from Venice Beach.

 

[Sabatical]

What an incredible journey. You did with a style uncommon to most. Thanks for sharing your trip with the forum. You write very well.

 

[USExplorer]

I may be done moving west for now, but I am not done traveling by any means!

After the library closes with the setting of the sun, I move onto a boulevard near downtown. Several other RVs and vans are also parked in the long line of cars. The only parking restriction is for the Tuesday morning street sweeping. I set out walking down to the beach, which is about half a mile away. Lots of pedestrians are out on the street. The moon-lit beach is not very crowded as I walk south to Washington Boulevard. In any other town, Washington Blvd would be Main Street, but here it is just one of many busy streets. Most of the bars and restaurants look upscale. I walk out to the end of the fishing pier. Asian tourists pass by on skateboards. A group of Asian women try to pet a disabled man's service dog, and the man grumpily pulls the dog out of their reach and tells them to leave. There are a couple dozen fisherfolk on the end of the pear. I talk to a large black man with several lines cast. He lives in South LA but this is his first time fishing on the Venice pier. He hopes to catch a shark sometime, but not tonight. The pier is far enough out on the water that the crash of the waves is only a quiet background noise. 

Back on the boardwalk, which is located in the back yards of the beach front condominiums, not much happens on the south side. As I walk north of Venice Blvd, though, homeless encampments start filling up the back alleys and the side of the beach walk. Most of the sidewalk vendors are shut down, although a hawker pumps the "Green Doctor" medical marijuana evaluation test to passersby. A faux-German beachfront bar does brisk business with a very well-to-do clientele. Across the boardwalk from the bar, a man holds a crack pipe in one hand and a yellow MAPP gas torch in the other, talking in an undecipherable accent to a fellow addict, both of them sitting outside their tent encampments as tourists walk by. Down the sidewalk, an LAPD SUV crawls along, the cops on the lookout for any citable activities. A well-dressed young transient tries to sell me marijuana. I tell him no but thanks for the offer and he laughs. On Windward Avenue near the Samesun hostel, I chat with a bunch of car-dwelling gutter punks who are passing a bottle of liquor between them. A crowd of wild hippies swarms around the area, some baked out of their minds. One of the punks' pitbulls barks at one of the stoners and the punk tweaks its ear and rebukes it. They finish their bottle of liquor and move across the street. When I walk past the next time they are holding out a panhandling sign. 

Skateboarders of most ages and all races weave recklessly through the pedestrian crowd up and down the boardwalk. Some homeless people have art posters out for sale. One is panhandling, with a sign that says "Artists' Life Destroyed by the f**king LAPD". An official paper warns that the whole beach area will be cleaned in a week, and every personal possession will be cleared off public property, either by the owner or by the city. An entire city office, with telephone number and office hours, is set up for personal effects recovery. Mentally ill transients talk loudly and gesture to no one in particular, as not a few hundred yards away wealthy vacationers prepare dinner in their $300/night beach rental condos with the windows open. Loud music pouring from a faux-Irish bar has cleared the area of transient encampments for a hundred yards.

I get tired of the LA nightlife around 9:30 without having spent a dime and walk back to my SUV parked on the Venice street, putting up a curtain to reduce headlight glare. Pedestrians and skateboarders pass by regularly. Around 10:00, someone turns on a loud stereo in a nearby house, and I put in earplugs. I wake up with first light the next morning and drive down to Santa Monica. Nothing much is happening at 7:00 am, but a fleet of parking meters is waiting to tax any visitors. I head north and east to the western terminus of I-10. Back in early December, before I started this log, I passed the eastern terminus of I-10 in Jacksonville Florida. In my trip here, I spent many weary miles battling traffic on its multiple lanes. Now, I have finally reached the end of this great cross-continental highway, an asphalt rendition of manifest destiny.

1676: The Los Angeles River in its concrete prison, south of the downtown.