It was still dark when I woke up Sunday morning, as I planned to get to Big Bear early in the day and wander around until sunset. Still, feeling a little lazy, I stayed in bed a little and reached for my California guidebook. I had only made the Joshua Tree plans the night before, so I figured I should get a sense of what to see when I went there. I turned to the appropriate page and saw a long-exposure picture of one of the iconic trees ringed by stars. I read below the image that the star-gazing alone was worth the trip to Joshua Tree.
I nearly leapt out of bed. I wanted to see those stars and with Joshua Tree a few hours away and sunsets between 7 and 8, if I waited until Labor Day itself, I would be torching myself for the following workday. Big audible time, I would swap my days and save Big Bear for Monday.
I packed my camping clothes, most of which I'd bought shortly before Zion, and made a quick supply run at the grocery store for 8 liters of water and roughly as much sunscreen. With a final stop for a Coffee Bean iced coffee, I was on my way.
The drive out went from boring freeway to a rollicking road passing a legion of wind turbines in orderly rows. I replaced the prior day's Stan-Rogers-heavy playlist with more Nickel Creek and John Fahey (no relation, to my knowledge) letting the various strings tick off the miles. The morning was still quite cool when I stopped for gas, breakfast, and some Clif bars to last the day, and I immediately wished I'd thought to bring a sweatshirt. Stargazing looked to be a shivery affair.
I pulled into Yucca Valley, CA just about when another caffeine boost felt necessary, so I stopped at a surprisingly quirky cafe called Frontier. There was a communal record player against one wall with a sign asking patrons to choose some music, while the sitting areas consisted of mismatched furniture and colorful paintings by local artists. I ordered another iced coffee and a "breakfast tartine" and set about taking the previous day's pictures off of my phone. I let the time slip by as I read some more and watched folks coming in and out of the store. Other Joshua Tree visitors were obvious, whether older hikers with sun hats and trail pants or millennials with chic sunglasses and breezy tops.
Once I left, it was less than thirty minutes until I passed through the ranger station and into Joshua Tree itself. I pulled off at the first opportunity and surveyed the landscape. On either side of the two-lane road, the signature trees staggered off through great piles of boulders or up into the larger hills. Though minutes before, I had passed the outskirts of a town, the terrain inside the park felt as though there had never been towns or people. The sun beat down, casting sharp shadows in the dirt, but few of those shadows offered any respite, unless one was willing to contour one's body along with the trees.
Further into the park, I spotted some people atop another large boulder pile and decided to adventure a little myself. Pulling off, I loaded up my daypack (another last-minute purchase before Zion) with two bottles of water, the Clif bars, and extra sunscreen. Giving a side-eye to the hole-pocked ground and the thick clusters of bushes, I took the first aid kit out of my car for good measure. I set out towards the boulders, my eyes scanning the desert floor for signs of movement. If the path shrank to less than a foot between heavy brush, I looped around another way. I could still see cars by the road and a few people in the distance, but I felt alone enough to be a little TOO careful.
Once I got to the boulders, the people I spotted were gone, though I though I saw them disappear behind the next formation over. I set about scrambling up the rocks, choosing the easiest, flattest route I could find. I had made it a good 20 feet above the ground and nearly to the top when I stopped. The next rock up came up to nearly my chin and the footing I already had was little wider than my shoulders. I gauged that I could probably lift myself up onto the rock like getting out of a pool, but the margin for error seemed intense. This marked the first time of many that day that I realized that being in a desert National Park alone, while not absurd, would be a bit of a struggle. Risks I might take with a friend in tow, be they longer hikes off the road or higher climbs, couldn't be taken alone, not with the last people to see me probably forgetting about me the moment they walked out of sight.
With that in mind, I found a seat lower on the formation and gazed out over the quiet desert. Slight breezes caught the yucca leaves and rustled the dry bushes along the ground, but otherwise all was still and with the formation between me and the road, I felt pleasantly alone.
After about ten minutes, a new pair of hikes shook lose the effect and I clambered down again. More cars had gathered at the pull-off, though some people were just popping out for quick pictures with the nearby trees before speeding off along the only road. I swigged deep from my water bottle as I swung the bag into the passenger seat, figuring there would be more opportunities for slight jaunts into the park.
Opening my park guide, I decided that my next stop would be Keys View, proclaimed to be the best view in the park. The drive there took me through most of the western landmarks in the park. The trees were everywhere and in various degrees of simplicity in their structure. Some seemed built like giant slingshots with two even branches, while others were Mandelbrot sets with leaves. More and greater rock formations loomed on either side, some of which marked trailheads that ventured off the road. I felt the pang again to explore, but kept moving, driving on past campsites and turnoffs for other parts of the park.
At last, the road led back out of the center and took me west. I passed a trail that took visitors to an abandoned mine and thought not for the first time about Red Dead Redemption and the many hours I'd spent in the dusty frontier of that game. Joshua Tree put the isolation of that game to shame, however. It seemed impossible to imagine it was the same country, much less the same state, as the busy, gridlocked city of Los Angeles.
Keys View was busy in its own way when I finally crested the hill. There were about 20 cars arranged in formal parking spots that seemed almost anachronistic. The view itself turned out bittersweet. The Coachella valley yawned beneath the hills and a few glints of reflected sunlight picked out Palm Springs in the distance, but otherwise a grey haze contrasted sharp, crisp desert views I had seen in Utah last year. The phenomenon was so common, in fact, that one of the overlook signs dealt primarily with the haze and how the gap in the mountains sucks it out from the inland empire and into the Coachella valley. I left the view with a bad taste in my mouth.
As I drove away, I realized I was out of concrete ideas. It was after 12, so I ate a Clif bar while looking at the park guide. I had a very long time until sunset and stargazing, so I felt it made sense to carve out a little space for myself while supporting our parks system. With that in mind, I followed signs to the Ryan campground and pulled into site number 5. I didn't necessarily plan to set up a full shop, nor even to set up anything just yet, but I wanted to claim some space because I could foresee a late afternoon period where I was all explored out and just needed to pass some time. I paid my fee and clipped my stub to the site post with a note explaining I would be gone by sundown in case someone wanted a good lead on an available campsite later.
The park guide also recommended Ryan Mountain, a nearby out-and-back hike of about 3 miles that seemed more clearly marked on the map than some I'd seen. I drove to the trailhead, where over a dozen cars gave me confidence that I would be found given the worst. I loaded up two liters of water, my REI CampLite chair, and a Clif bar and began my ascent. Not long into the hike, I saw a couple coming down the rocky steps toward me. The young woman wore a breezy top and a broad brimmed hat, a look that I associate with Coachella for some reason. The man was shirtless, his torso a column of muscle, but when I looked up at his face, it was more rugged than I expected. As he passed, he gave a gravelly but friendly "How's it going?" It was then that I recognized him as Josh Brolin. I said hi back and continued up the stairs.
Layered stone stairs made up much of the first section of the trail before it curled right along the hill beside the parking area. From then on, it snaked along the ridge, never more than four feet wide and often with the hill dropping off on the right hand side. The desert floor fell away slowly at first, but after about 30 minutes of climbing, the piles of boulders that had towered over the roads seemed like clutter in the otherwise unbroken expanse.
As I’d hoped, I passed other groups along the way, mainly couples and very few if any children. The narrow trail made for a lot of polite waiting as one or the other took the opening to pass. As I neared an hour of climbing, a cluster of 20-somethings past by on the way down and one shouted, “Almost there, man!” I thanked him a little breathlessly and continued on.
The path topped the ridge at last and I got my first view at the valley to the south on an overlook hosting one and only one perfectly symmetrical two-branch Joshua Tree. The terrain below was a deep brown deepened by the pervasive five-o’clock shadow of the trees. People were passing each other more quietly now, panting through the final stretch. At last, I saw the small sign marking the highest altitude beside a massive manmade piled of stones. I smiled and walked up to the sign, framing it in my phone camera.
“Want a picture of yourself?” came a voice from behind me. I turned to see a man and woman in several layers of hiking gear, sitting against the bottommost stones in the pile. The woman, who had spoken, smiled broadly.
“Would you mind?”
“Not at all!” she said, nudging her husband to stand. “This is a real accomplishment!”
I love the picture that couple took of me. My smile is wide and full and very, very genuine. I loved her sentiment. The hike was an accomplishment, as was the whole day, the whole weekend. Not bad at all for a guy with no plans a few days before.
I set up the camping chair on a flat area overlooking the north and south valleys. Far below me, I could see the three-story rockpile marking my camping area, unimaginably small. A crow rode updrafts in long, lazy circles at about eye level; the same gusts crossed my face so that I could almost predict his movement as I watched. I sat for thirty minutes, just watching.
The hike down took a lot of energy out of me. Thankfully, a couple in front of me set an even enough pace that I could watch my footing and keep them at the top of my vision. At the bottom, after about another 45 minutes, I nearly dove into the trunk after a third liter of water, then sat in the car with my feet outside the car, feeling them throb in the sudden stillness.
I drove briefly in the opposite direction from the campsite, down a part of the main roads I hadn’t seen yet, but my head ached and the terrain’s repetitive simplicity began to wear me down. I doubled back and pulled into the campsite at around 2pm, ready to set myself up for a nap until a little closer to sunset.
I set up my
tent (for the second time ever) and rolled out my sleeping bag. I didn’t have a
sleeping pad and I didn’t feel like disturbing the stillness with an air
mattress pump, so when I laid down on the bag, the hard ground below made
itself known. I was tired enough, however, that I still drifted in and out of
sleep for about an hour. Whenever I woke, I looked up through the tent at the
blue sky and the spiked leaves of the nearest trees.
After waking
for good, I brought my computer into the tent to dump a few more pictures while
I hid from the sun and let a podcast or two chop away the remaining hours. With
so much time left, I began to feel cranky and restless. My head ached, my eyes
were tired of the bright sun, and I realized that perhaps three CLIF bars did
not make a decent food supply for a day in the desert. The heat in the sunlight
was oppressive, even inside the tent, and I contemplated sitting in the car for
a while. As I put the computer back in the backseat, however, I noticed the
long, low shadow the car threw across the edge of my campsite. More interested
in shade than rest, I popped up my chair once again and sat alongside the car,
reading Algorithms and soaking in any cool breeze that came by.
Cars had
rolled through the campsite all day, but in the hours before sunset, the pace
picked up noticeably. I began to feel bad for taking up a full campsite without
intending to stay the night, so I packed up the tent with enough of a show that
the next car through slowed and an Australian woman called out, “Heading out?”
I told her I
was and that they were welcome to pull in and start setting up their site. When
I mentioned I had just stopped for a nap before sunset, she said I was welcome
to stick around a while given I was handing over the campsite, but I told her
I’d head along. In truth, I wanted to be alone, too frayed and hungry to
socialize with their group, no matter how friendly.
I took the
driveway back out to the main road and drove back towards where I’d entered the
park. I recalled a big parking lot at the turnoff for Keys View so I figured
I’d move my wait there and continue reading. When I arrived, however, the
gigantic rock pile alongside called my name, so I clambered up the boulders to
a high seat facing the sun. Cars came and went sparingly. The wind tossed up
dust and rustled the yucca leaves. I looked longingly at the higher spots, but
I’d gone as far as I could with safe maneuvers and I didn’t want to start
making mistakes now. This, I thought, this is where I will watch the sunset.
left maybe
15 minutes later. Part of the problem was the landmark itself. Called Cap Rock,
it was named for the carefully balanced small boulder high atop the titanic
rock that formed the base of the pile. Magnificent? Yes. Unsettling to sit
beneath? Also yes. In addition, the cars that did pass all seemed to be bound
for Keys View and the more I thought about it, the better the idea seemed. A
broad valley view westward would be a nice way to end the day.
The view was
packed when I arrived. Nearly fifty people were scattered across the rocks,
their cameras set up off the paved paths. The crowd didn’t bother me, however,
and I set up my chair with a podcast on, still trying to cleave time away
episode by episode. The sun set right into the mountains behind Palm Springs
and sent long shadows up the rifts on our side of the valley. Once it sank out
of sight, a secondary murmur kicked up as a bighorn sheep ran down a nearby
hill. The traffic leaving the view felt like leaving a baseball game…lines of
red lights and a lot of waiting.
My next stop
was a pull-off near the view, where a few other cars waited for nightfall as
well. I parked beside them, put back the sunroof shade and waited. Darker
colors rolled across the sky, revealing the stars one brilliant pinprick at a
time. Feeling a little isolated in the park and still restless, I started the
car and drove back to Cap Rock. There, the stargazing had a little more of a
social contract to it. I hadn’t seen anyone moving around the previous
pull-off, but here families gathered behind their cars and looked up together.
There were excited murmurs from every corner of the parking lot and another car
arrived every fifteen minutes or so, each switching off its lights as quickly
as possible.
I set up my
camp chair behind CJ and leaned back with my head on her rear bumper. I romanticize
my car too much, but it did feel like a shared moment. That car has taken me
from one side of the country to the other three times and has so often been the
means to a better freedom and a clearer mind. As I watched, the stars came out
for hours as the sunlight thinned on the horizon. The clusters were thick and
deep, while the Milky Way ran across the sky unmistakably bright. I breathed
quietly and smiled for about an hour as the night sky glowed, blacked out on
the margins by Cap Rock and the other formations. I was glad I powered through
to stay.
When I felt
I had seen my fill and with an eye to being somewhat serviceable for Big Bear
the next day, I got in the car and left. I stopped a few more times on the way
out, pulling alongside the road I’d begun on, but ultimately I pulled out of
the park and made the two hour drive back home. It was a hard drive, as I was
completely exhausted, but it was absolutely worth the effort. It was an
accomplishment.
-----------------
I woke up
late Monday. Going to bed after Joshua Tree, I felt the kind of exhaustion you
either respect or get sick ignoring. Starting late, I decided Big Bear still
had to happen. I wanted my beaches, deserts, and mountains. I packed my bag
again and set the GPS to a well-recommended coffee shop near the shores of the
lake.
The first
part of the drive felt a little like the ride back from Joshua Tree. There was
an obligation to it that I hoped wouldn’t last. Thankfully, once I pulled off
the freeway and the road began curving through the mountains, I got my groove
back and crowed happily with every hairpin turn. A healthy line of cars passed
me going the other way, surely at the end of a whole weekend spent on the lake,
but I was willing to wait that out if I had to. The mountains and trees restored
me.
I got a
notification from Kelly up in Reno/Tahoe that she recognized the road from a
picture I’d posted. I remarked to her that it suddenly made sense why Tahoe fit
her so well. The feel of the winding mountain roads dappled with the shadows of
tall trees felt like Incline in the best way.
After
running along the southern side of the mountains, the road finally turned
inward and I slid into an overlook parking area shortly afterward, agog at the
view. The road sat high on one of the mountains, overlooking a wide valley
below. Mountains thick with trees filled the entire horizon, one behind the
other, with the lake itself just barely visible in the distance. It felt
remote, and I understood why Big Bear was such a popular retreat from the noise
of Los Angeles.
The road
continued along the valley walls until it finally dropped to the lake, sending
me along the southern shore. I passed lake houses perched on rocky outcroppings
and hidden driveways leading back up into the hills. The resemblance to Tahoe was
strong, though more like the busier lakeside towns like Southlake than the
quiet comfort of Incline. The pace on the road went slow, but I soon found my
coffee shop, where the proud owner informed me just which beans went into my
cold brew. I sat on the porch with the coffee and a Danish and read through my
local options.
My knee had
made itself known a little at the end of the Ryan Mountain hike; no pain, but a
telltale weakness that means I need to do a few more strengthening exercises.
Given that and the exhaustion temporarily at bay, I decided my Labor Day didn’t
need to be quite so adventurous. I was there, I had arrived, I could relax. I
drove into the Big Bear Village area, parked, and got some lunch while reading
my book. I then strolled to the Big Bear Brewing Company and tried some of
their in-house concoctions. The speed was perfect, just me and my book, no
longer jetting from beach to beach or self-stranded in the desert.
There’s not
much more to the day, really. I drove all the way around the lake, stopping to
take pictures of the water or the towering pines. Then, when I had good and
properly seen the place, I left. The line of cars had died down and I got home
relatively without incident, climbing down out of the mountains with the same joy
I’d had going up. When I arrived back at the house, I collapsed into the couch
and let the cat climb up for some attention.
I did it.
Beaches, deserts, mountains. What do I like about LA? You’re only a few hours from everything.
