Roadtrip: Day 13

8-24-12 I-10 TO YUMA

Friday, August 24^th was not the most enjoyable day of driving. It was hot. I was on the interstate for most of the day. There wasn't much to see.

I left Tuscon mid-morning and headed north on I-10, and made a detour when I saw signs for Saguaro National Park. I guess I was in a bad mood or just antsy, but it felt like a waste of time, so I drove back to the Interstate and cruise controlled it all the way to Yuma, AZ. I'd had the Grapes of Wrath playing in the car for awhile now, so crossing over into California came with a sense of foreboding. Will there be work? Will the old jalopy break down in the desert? Will I be able to afford more than fried dough?

I had heard from a couple people about the Imperial Sand Dunes Recreation Area, just across the border on I-8, and thought I might check them out, noticing a line in the atlas that looked to me like a short cut. Ted Kipf Rd, a couple miles north of exit 159, was pretty hard to find amid the sandy landscape, and I should've taken that as a sign to head back to clearly-marked pavement. Instead I turned off onto the half sand, half gravel road that promised to connect to Highway 111 up at the Salton Sea.

The first mile was pretty basic gravel road driving, slowing now and then for the sandy patches. In the second mile the sand started to get a little deeper, and the first seeds of doubt began germinating in the back of my mind, but I ignored them and kept going. By the third mile, I was a full-on dune buggy, surfing over deep sand and sliding back and forth across the road. Panic set in, and I slowed down, pulling into a solid-looking wash in hopes of doing a three-point turn and sneaking back to the hardtop with my tail between my legs. 

What followed was the longest three-point turn in history. I backed out of the wash, turning the car south, then managed to drive a whole five feet before the car just stopped moving. I tapped the gas experimentally a couple times, to no effect. I tried the reverse, forward, reverse, forward dance. Nothing. I dug out the tires and laid gravel in the trenches. Nothing. I pushed. I pulled. I pried. I prayed. Nothing. By the grace of God, I had one faltering bar of reception on my phone, so I broke down and called roadside assistance, who dispatched a winch truck from Jimbo's 24 Hour Towing in nearby Winterhaven for my rescue.

I sat in the 105 degree heat for an hour feeling like an idiot, until finally, a faint shimmer on the horizon! A big 4x4 dually winch truck rolled up, swimming through the sand like a tank, and stout older man climbed out. Dave, a 36 year towing veteran, then proceeded to get his rig stuck while trying to turn it around. Confidence -inspiring. "Well looky here! Her 4x4 fuse is blown. Shoulda checked that before I left!" He let some air out of the tires while I shoveled out a path for him, and eventually we got him back to his original position. "Well I guess I'll have to reverse her back to the hard stuff then turn around and reverse her all the way back here," muttered Dave. "Well I'll be here when you get back," I offered, like a wise-ass. Another 15 minutes passed, and he was back, ready to hook me up to the winch, but wait, the winch is broken too, you say? Of course it is. Between the two of us we jerry-rigged a length of chain with hooks, and he pulled me out of the hole I had dug myself into. "Still pretty soft here, I reckon I'll drag you out to the harder stuff," he said, and for the next mile I over-corrected back and forth across the road, feeling more like a wakeboarder than a driver. I professed my eternal gratitude to Dave, and scurried back to the Interstate feeling tired with a blend of anger and relief.

Mile 3000 came and went, a mile of flat interstate marked by nothing more than a trio of languid dust devils. In the early dark, I drove north on Highway 111. Passing the Salton Sea and its oppressive stagnant salt air. Through Mecca and Thermal and Coachella. Just outside of the southern entrance to Joshua Tree National Park, I pulled off the road and crawled into my sleeping quarters in the back of the car.

TOTD: School of Seven Bells - Dust Devil (semi-acoustic version)

Roadtrip: Day 12

8-23-12 ROAD LESS TRAVELED
I woke refreshed Thursday morning, despite the groggy encounter the night before that was still trying to find some order in my muddled memory. One benefit of sleeping in the car was that the sun urged me on my way not long after it started the day, yielding a few extra hours of driving and sight-seeing.

Train full of tanks.

I knew I had to be in Tuscon by dinner, but didn't have any other plans for the day, so I cracked open my dog-eared 2006 Rand McNally Road Atlas and traced a basic route through southeastern AZ's Coronado National Forest  and Chiricahua National Monument. I was tempted to deviate, however, when I reached a fork in the road with one of its arrows leading to Paradise, AZ. The other arrow, leading to the National Forest, pointed down a narrow road that squirmed its way out of sight between two mountain ranges, and looked like the next best thing to Paradise.

The road continued to wind into the valley, the pavement gradually giving way to gravel. The gravel began to rise. And rise. Up the mountain I climbed, with switchbacks and hairpins whitening my knuckles. Signs began to inform me that I was on my way to "Rustlers Park", and glimpses of the road further up the mountain let me know that "Rustlers Park" was very high up. The road was ablaze with wildflowers, red, yellow, purple, as if to mock the charred skeletons of fir and pine, standing testaments to nature's fury.

And then it leveled off. A still and cool meadow lay atop the mountain, and for the intrepid motorist, respite. Rustlers Park is a National Forest campground at 8,500 ft with views clear into Mexico, and a destination for bird-watchers and solitude-seekers. I walked around for awhile with library quietness, and listened to the whoosh of wind in the canopy and took in evidence of last year's 365,000 acre wildfire. In the early 1900's, outlaws used the meadow to hide stolen livestock, but these days the folks up there are probably hiding from cubicles and cell phones.

Down the mountain, I followed signs for Chiricahua National Monument, a small green blob in the atlas that caught my attention. The bulk of its trails and scenic drives were closed for repairs (more wildfire victims), so  I wandered around a historic ranch property; one of those mile-long educational hikes. An ominous cloud crept into the valley, and I took that as my cue to move on.

On to Tuscon, and an old-time friend I hadn't seen in seven years. We got re-acquainted as his two gargantuan black labs slobbered on me, and then met up with another high-school friend for dinner. Thankfully I didn't have to fight the dogs for the couch when we got back to the house.

Track of the Day: Goat Rodeo Sessions - Attaboy

(more bluegrass, must be homesick)