5/24

A white van sailed through an ocean of desert dust. It slid through the eternal alleyway of Joshua trees. My Hawaiian sarong was flying in the wind from its anchor on cactus fingers. I forget it four days ago.

On the road back, Bill stopped the van quickly. A red snake lay sprawled across four feet of dust. "Those suckers bite like a motherfucker," he said. He opened the door and walked around the red racer in slow circles, the white childish grin in his mouth. The snake was not as pleased and began coiling into symbols of pain. Bill cornered its escape, and instantly broke into a swift jig, laughing as the spearhead lashed at his ankles. He stepped away as it lunged a last time, through the brushes and away. He walked back into the van and drove us home, picking up the conversation where it was dropped.

5/23

There is still snow waiting on the high slopes of the Sierra. Furniture and I decided we could wait longer, so we are waiting on the desert floor. We are waiting on the dry and dusty basin of the Mojave desert, the intermission between two mighty mountain ranges. We found jobs on a goat farm, and arrived today. The owners fed us goat milk and goat cheese and goat meat and goat kefir and took us through this cradle of life in the bowl of dust. Wide blue skies and snowy peaks frame a beige orchard of apple trees and steel goat cages. The wind runs through like a vandal, stirring the plants and the animals. Snakes called "the Mojave Green" slide along the ground, waiting to put a neurotoxin, donated by evolution, into a man's blood. Goats are the citizens of this little city, and dogs are their police, and a monstrous blind pig is their mayor. Already we have heard stories of space shuttles and abandoned gold mines and drag races and heavy metal deposits and Charles Manson's family and the Mojave Green. The desert is the place to pursue things that have been chased out of cities, and here we are amongst both lifestyles- sheltered in an ancient anchored RV in the ring of rusting apocalyptic stacks of machines, just waiting, just being a desert competitor.

Trail Photos, Southern California

5/20

The desert saga really begins yesterday afternoon. We plowed through the first sun oven of sand and arrived at the highway. It was just a long vein of asphalt, and there was a home on the other side, trimmed like a western film set. Old machinery lay in the sandy yard, and the owner welcomed us into his garage. We let the sun sink and the heat escape before setting into the sand again. The trail plunged through the Mojave desert, a long strand of sand dividing the mountains. we approached the narrow open channel of the Los Angeles aqueduct, and peed into it before crossing, only hoping the our salt-infused peanut urine would fill a minor drop of every cosmopolitan water glass. We made it as far into the dark desert as we could before collapsing.

This morning the sun was quick to wake again. Within an hour my skin changed from shivering to sweating. By light our view was unlimited- sweeping copper hills patched with Joshua trees, standing around like sentinels. The wind began to steadily intensify, until we were leaning forward to stay upright. Sand was being caught in greater gusts. Soon I could not hear anything but the whipping in my ears. Bojangles walked in front of me and screamed something into the air. He pointed to a rattlesnake coiled on the trail, shaking, but its sound drowned in the wind. We walked around it but encountered three more, all threatening us silently.

5/18

After a stint of fortunate roadside karma and the collective pampering of civilizations, of pooping in toilets consecutive evenings and finding coffee in the morning, I have brought myself back into the abyss. Fire closures routed the trail on country roads and past the eyes of strangers. Folks in Acton, Agua Dulce and Green Valley were all eager to spoil me as they saw me emerge from beneath powerlines and railroad tracks. But here I am again and it is the pain and the pleasure that let me know that I'm alive.
A cold mist settled on the desert for the past two days. What used to be limitless panoramas of sand became shrouded by thick cold clouds. We walked high on the ridge today in a still and quiet haze. The desert was like a dreamland. "There better not be a psycho clown with a meat cleaver around the corner," Bojangles said.

5/14

Fire closure forced us onto the road. There are no trees or water, only a thin vein of asphalt running to a disappearing desert horizon. Gone are the ice-blanketed 8,000 foot passes, and now we walk alone in the floor of the beige-colored quartz oven. But we found a giant willow tree bending over sand on the bank of a desert stream, and here in the shade we will wait until the sun has dropped its guard, and start walking again. The plastic Jesus in the roadside sand will watch us.

5/11

At 8300 feet elevation the only bed I have is granite and sticks. The sun is sinking over the ridge and the vapor is rising in quick clouds from the two warm bodies on this ridge. Michael the German is here too, and we anticipate an easy trounce through ten miles of snow to town tomorrow. Those below may be proud of their homes, but on this perch I watch them move like ants below, and eat my cheese like a king.