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Steve's Wacky California Road Trip To Hell COPYRIGHT 2002 STEVEN HAYS November 1996 Visiting California has always been a little strange for me. The land feels different from the desert and prairies of Colorado, New Mexico and Utah that I know so well. Years ago on my way to San Francisco to photograph a dance workshop, after having crossed the border into California from Oregon I could feel a difference in the land, could almost sense the eerie presence of the state's population in the landscape. Well, this time in California was no less strange for me.

	On the drive out to southern California and it's Death Valley, I first stopped in Moab, the mountain biking mecca of the world, to camp for the night with friends who were there to celebrate the Thanksgiving holiday by biking hard then stuffing themselves with turkey around a campfire surrounded by Utah's slick rock landscape. A lively bunch, they made it difficult to journey on alone the next day.
Heading south through Utah on Interstate Highway 25, I drove on towards Nevada. Late at night near Las Vegas, Nevada I can see the bright lights of this desert gambling oasis. Hmm, the old Toyota van with 175,000 miles on its body and internal organs is starting to make a bit of a low hum somewhere deep within its vital parts. If my faithful van suddenly seizes up, Las Vegas would be a good place to break down; there's got to be a good repair and slot machine shop somewhere in the city. But the engine surges onward through town and carries me away from the temptation to look around a little. I keep driving on through the night until sleep can no longer be denied and pull off somewhere in the middle of no where, crawl into my sleeping bag in the back of my van, warm and comfortable on my futon mattress. This is what I do on the road, drive until I'm tired, pull over to sleep then get up for the warm light of sunrise to seek images of the desert land I love so much. I'm of the Nomadic School of photography. Inspired by wanderlust, light and the land.

	The next day I awaken in a desert valley and drive south to cross into California, known as Wowafornia by some. I have that same odd feeling of being in a place with a lot of people around yet the land rushing by the highway is free of the signs of inhabitation. I head further south on Highway 95 to hook up with 62 which leads to Twentynine Palms and the entrance to Joshua Tree National Monument. Normally, I avoid national parks out of a preference for the remote but am to meet, in person for the first time, a cyber pal from the Kodak fine art photography board on America Online. Along both sides of 62 on the way to Twentynine Palms are miles of deserted old shacks indicating that the desert valley once attracted many. Again, the eerie feeling as I wonder who were the people that lived here and what brought them and what forced them to leave. But, perhaps the old shacks are just part of an abandoned set from the largest Hollywood movie ever?

When I arrive in Joshua Tree I wait in a campground for Martha, my fine art board compatriot, to arrive. It's an interesting place with mounds of boulders everywhere and those funny joshua trees, with their spiney monkeylike limbs. This is a rock climbers paradise. I was to come here with my brother to do some climbing but he had other plans. Martha shows up and I again experience the slight shock of meeting in real life someone I've typed at across the electronic oceans. There is always a bit of disparity between the image conjured from words read on a computer monitor and the living, breathing being in front of you. We quickly settle in to talking, though, about our interests in photography and then pull out our respective portfolios to display our photographic wares. We decide to tour the park for a bit to scout more images to add to those portfolios then later that afternoon we each head off in our own directions. Despite the crowds, I find the place a little lonely without my brother's companionship, so off I go thinking to return one day with friends and climbing gear.

	Once on my way again, I head towards the East Mojave National Scenic Area which is quite similar to Joshua Tree, without all the people, and camp for the night before heading for Death Valley, and trouble, the next day.
I once drove a VW bus up a mountain valley in southern Colorado, up an old mining road just to see what was ahead. I thought if things got tough I would just turn around. Passing 'Rough Road - 4 wheel drive only' signs along the way I suddenly discovered I had climbed to the top of the pass without having to give in. I soon regretted my sense of adventure starting down the other side as my vehicle began to dangerously slide down the loose talis slope. I made it down in one piece but swore I'd never try anything like that again......at least until the next time. Unfortunately, I don't always remember promises once made to myself when under the gun as I arrive in Death Valley near sunset. After climbing a pass dropping down to the depths of the valley floor, looking at the inhospitable and ominous face of the land I understand how it came to be known as Death Valley. Dead Valley. It's November and the desolate feeling of the place is heightened by there being no other cars, everyone has enough sense to stay away. It's late so I turn around and head back towards the pass to look for a spot to camp for the night.

	On the way to the Valley, traveling up a rocky dirt road pass I have taken hoping to find something unusual to photograph, I get the feeling that I am lost. Following my photographic instinct off the main highways into places never before visited I feel out of place, lost, even though I'm following the dotted line on the map. This feeling may come from the uncertainty of what lies ahead, from the comfort and relative security left behind at home. But, I suppose this is why I make these trips, to break the routine and seek a sense of adventure.

Pulling off the road onto a dirt path leading across a sand wash and up an incline,I decide to stop before getting my two wheel drive Toyota into a tight spot, then back around in a wash to head back down. Big mistake. My tires start spinning and sinking into the loose sand. I'm sunk.
	After jumping out and surveying the situation, I decide to place a few of the loose rocks lieing about in front of the wheels for traction. Jumping back in I try again and sink my wheels even deeper still. Ok, I decide that it's now time to start working on finally earning that boy scout merrit badge for advanced road building. I dig into the sand barehanded and carefully place a few stones in front and in back of the wheels to try and rock and roll my van to safety. I try again but the tires send the stones flying. I look over at the deserted highway, figure no help will arrive any time soon so decide that it is now time for some serious road construction. And anyway, its a matter of pride - I got myself into this mess and will certainly get myself out......some way.

I start walking up the hill to gather rocks, picking nice flat specimens to build the ultimate launch ramp. The sky has finally darkened enough to require lighting so I put on my headlamp allowing my hands freedom to haul and build. Even though it's late in the year I keep quite warm from the hard work. I start digging again with my bare hands, skin cracking from the sanding, to place rocks one at a time, fitting each to ensure a solid platform. Sand is carefully sifted between the cracks to avoid room for slippage. My van angles slightly uphill so after placing the jack firmly atop a stone, I begin raising the van. I place stones underneath the wheel then lower the jack and do the same to the other side. After deciding more height is needed, I once again start raising the van until the jack suddenly slips and the van drops.
	Fortunately I am not injured but the jack has stiffened from the strain. I use motor oil to lubricate the jack and successfully add more rocks to each wheel. Placing rocks for a runway I manage to painfully smash a finger which begins to throb and bleed. I stop a moment to appreciate my good fortune of not having friends along. They would gladly do much worse to me for having gotten them into a situation like this! Its getting quite late and I finally must give in to exhaustion, so climb into the back of my van perched high up on its stone ramp awaiting the freedom launch. As I dose off I hear scratching up under the dashboard. A mouse?
I get up with sunrise, look at my road building feat then decide a little more height would improve my chances of making the first attemp at escaping the clutches of the sandwash. After the final touches I hopped in, started my van, asked for the blessing of the king of the desert roads, and popped the clutch while racing the enging to successful spin out and away from the wash. I stopped at a safe distance and got out to survey the remains of my freedom road, looked at the scattered pile of bloody rocks and thought ...........never again. Until the next time. (On a recent trip to Santa Fe I again had a chance to practice my road building skills; just to see if I still have the knack.)

	I then left the Valley of Deathly Sand Traps and headed northwest away from there. Fast. Late in the afternoon, I finally climb out of Panamint Valley, away from sandwashes, and pull off the road to look at a historical marker and see an old and patched road leading up to the distant hills where an old mining hamlet lie. Thinking interesting photo possbilities may await, I decide to head up the road. Before leaving, I open the glove box to put away sunglasses and see a furry little mouse staring up at me.
After a futile attempt at capturing the creature I give up and drive on. Arriving in the town at dusk, I noted rows of abandoned miner's shacks full of old character and after looking a little closer saw some old characters living in some of these. I thought the place would be great to photograph, but soon felt it looked more like a place to get away from quickly. The sort of place where one might go and not be seen or heard from again. I drove off down the beat up road and back tracked to a good spot to camp for the night.
	Pulling well off the highway, on firm road, I stopped out of site of the highway and climbed into my sleeping bag for the night. Just before dozing off to sleep I again heard the scratching nose up under the dashboard, up there where there were wires important to the successful starting of my engine.

Now, I know mice like to knaw on things and normally I leave other living creatures unharmed but I am worried about being able to get home safely. I have tried unsuccessfully to capture and release the mouse. So remembering that antifreeze should be kept away from animals, I set out a dish of granola with a little antifreeze to wash it down with in the hope that this will slow the mouse down enough to keep my wires safe. During the night I hear some more scratching then a sudden flurry of movement as I realize the mouse has found the spiked granola. The mouse seems to slow a little in activity after that. Rising the next, I open the glove box and for a brief moment see the mouse starring up at me from its cozy little nest before it scampers off again to my wires. Oh, well.
	Mouse forgotten for awhile, I decide to hike around to photograph the strange monkeylike joshua trees. I walk a short distance and discover hidden from the road by a small hill two old junked cars from the 40's or early 50's. I walk around photographing these for a while until I decide to climb in the back seat of one to photograph the landscape through what is left of the front windshield. In the front seat is a big nestlike pile of branches and twigs. Might be a really BIG mouse living in here.

Later that morning I stop in the town of Lone Pine for breakfast and side order of mouse traps then head on north. Just outside of town I see an old concrete grain silo which looked interesting, so I turn around and drive down the side road along which it stood. I pull over, quickly decide its not worth the trouble of jumping the barbed wire fence, especially since I see a car pulled off down the road a bit, then turn around to get back on the highway. I soon look into to my rear view mirror to see flashing lights.......the red lights of the California State Patrol. Oh, no, what did I do!
	What happened to your car! are the first words of amazement as the patrolman walks up to my vehicle and sees the rather large concave scar in the side of my trusty Toyota from an encounter with a hit and run driver a few years back. I can tell I am making a good first impression with the man patrolling California's highways. Feeling rattled by being stopped, especially after being in lonely, desolate places for several days I stammered when the patrolman asked why I turned around so quickly when I saw him. So that was his car down the road from the silo. I... I... um, I'm a photographer, I was.... uh, just going to photograph the silo but saw the fence and turned around. I quickly added - I can show you my camera gear. Really. He says, what's in your other hand? I raise my empty right hand to show him skin. Show me your drivers license. Without looking I reach into my wallet, grab the license and extend what happens instead to be my credit card. (Good move. Now he's really going to haul me off to jail!) He offered to keep it but said that he really needed my driver's license instead. I am so glad I wore a white shirt, suit and tie for my license mug shot - need to show SOME sense of respectability.
Next, he asks for my auto registration. I reach for the glove box, pop it open, then shout in a somewhat high pitched voice as I see that little pointed nose and those beedy eyes staring up at me.........Ahhhh, IT'S A MOUSE!!!!!!!!!!! The patrolman suddenly reaches for his gun, then after pausing (thankfully) and looking at me asks, quite seriously, Why are you keeping a mouse in there? I stammered a feeble explanation - the laced food, the mouse traps I just bought, and then whined, I can't get rid of it. He went to his car, talked to his radio, and after discovering I've done nothing more than harbor a fugitive mouse, wished me a good day and, I am certain, gladly left to go find some nice, sane criminals. I wondered as I drove away.......was he going to shoot me .........or the mouse?

	After that adventurous episode, aside from worrying about the increasingly louder hum within my van's vital parts, the trip home improved after leaving California. I continued on to drive through salt flats, past road side graves, shoe trees and so forth. The wide open spaces of Nevada brought back the familiar feeling of contentment in traveling the lonesome highways of the West. That night I heard no more scratching up under the dash. I suppose the close call with being shot probably scared the mouse right out of its cozy glove box nest, ending for it the magic lure of the open road. I know California is a well-loved home to many but for some, like myself, it's a place where I just may need to proceed with caution. Steven Hays

Steve's Wacky California Road Trip To Hell