East, Towards the Desert

The waves were dying down and after three weeks of cruising the California coast, the Syncro had developed a coating of sand and a special odor.   In addition, parts of Southern California were starting to feel familiar. Weighing my options, I stopped by Trader Joe's in Silverlake to restock on provisions and headed east towards the desert.

The suburbs faded into obscurity as the 10 ran east towards Palm Springs.  Desert started winning the war over farms and cul-de-sacs.  Following signs towards Joshua Tree National Park,  I turned off on 62.  Morongo Valley, Yucca Valley,  Whats the big deal about this place? I asked myself.  The loud shriek of a nearby military jet confirmed my suspicions that the area was fit for weapons testing.  Pulling into the park, I started seeing what the hype was all about.  For the first time in recent memory,  I couldn't see a house or other sign of civilization, just trees from a Dr. Seuss book.  Sporadic rock formations decorated the horizon and hills, inviting exploration.

After a day a day of solo hikes, crawling around rocks and camping in a busy campsite,  I started growing uneasy.  Nature should be raw and open ended, not packaged and consumed. Driving off in search of a campsite on one of the so-called 4x4 roads designated by the official park map, furthered my angst. Under promise and over deliver,  perhaps for a Prius.  The Syncro wanted more dirt, and I wanted more seclusion.

See the face?

Craving God's County, BLM and National Forest, I left Joshua Tree at sunrise the next day. Setting my sites on Kern River Canyon,  I headed north away from roads connected to LA.  Traffic died off.  The occasional lifted pickup truck sped by, and my music blasted with windows down.  A sign read "No service for 55 miles."  Good things accompany these signs.

Sunrise in Joshua Tree National Park.

These ditches are dug to stop off roaders.

One of the most beautiful sunsets of my life.

The shortening days prompted me to pull off the road earlier than usual.  Invited by a trail snaking up to a hill,  I drove to the gate, packed my pack with The Monkey Wrench Gang, my Snowpeak cook kit and two cans of chili.  No registration or designated areas to cook, just a mile of hiking to do before sunset.  I locked the doors out of habit before realizing that there was no one around for ten miles.

Here are some more links,

Sunset (Picasa),

The Desert (Picasa).

Alphabetical Order

The Syncro's Kenwood stereo defaults to playing music in alphabetical order.  Plugging in my iPhone through the USB port, Marshal Tucker Band's AB's Song starts.  Like in the song, I just so happen to be 23 too.  After 1:15, and it's on to one of the many versions that Warren Zevon recorded of Accidentally Like a Martyr. Best of, Remastered, Unplugged, and Live BBC.  Growing tired of that, I tap away on the forward button with the fury of a tween video gamer.  Another Brick in the Wall. I push As many times as I can.

"Was that odd or even?" I ask myself, down-shifting on the hill.

Growing uneasy with that song, I repeat the cycle.

Here are some more links,

Accidentally like a Martyer (Youtube),

AB's Song (Youtube).

South of LA

A thick marine fog cloaked the palm trees and bluffs, limiting visibility to a few hundred feet.  Nearby traffic hummed on the PCH.  Every few minutes, a hollow sound announced the passing of a liberally muffled motorcycle.  Sitting in the driver's seat of the Syncro with the door open, I watched waves roll in from the grey horizon.   Dozens of  black dots bobbed up and down as the swells past.  Blindly reaching for a bag of pistachios, I tracked a wave pass through an especially dense group of black dots.  A handful started moving towards the shore in anticipation of the wave peeking. Two white streaks went in separate directions.

"Damn, that looks fun. I'm suiting up," I said looking back towards my cousin, Nikko, stretching out in the back seat. "You cool to hang out for a bit?"

"Absolutely," he said, keeping his eyes pealed to, "Travel's With Charlie."

For the sixth time since leaving LA two days earlier,  I grabbed my 3'2 suit and 7'6 Walden Minimagic from the roofrack and raced down the stairs towards the beach.

On Friday morning,  Nikko and I followed the ocean down towards San Diego in the final leg of my exploration of the California Coast.   Despite the areas reputation for constant sun, a San Francisco like fog covered the coast, making the densely developed area feel remote and repetitively uninhabited.  Exploring the numerous parks and surf breaks that separate Mediterranean "mansions,"  supplemented the sections of coast where 1 combines with I5 with residential roads.  Parking the Syncro on sections of road unrestricted by parking laws by night, we joined the thousands of other gypsies taking advantage of the warm climate and reliable waves.

Reef.

Lined up.

Drying a constantly wet towel.

Three feet at 13 seconds.

Limited visibility.

Baywatch.

Black Dots.

Paddling out through the white water, I paused for a second to look back towards the bluffs. Teeth like rows of parked cars some hundred feet above contrasted the gray background, bringing back memories of a foggy Manhattan skyline.

A surfers "Hoot!" brought me back from my day dream, and I paddled with purpose, narrowing avoiding the waves peak.

Here are some more links,

SoCal (Picasa),

Out of Reception.

SoCal

As an Oregonian, I grew up hearing bad things about Southern California.  From an early age,  this one sided rivalry was instilled through osmosis.   Fueled with comments like, "It's a car culture down there; we bike here," and "Go Home To California" stickers on the bumpers' of countless Volvo's, it took little more than a love of a seasonal climate to join the anti-LA bandwagon. Call it blind Nationalism, for I had never stepped foot there.

Five years in the North East, four years in Maine and one in New York, cured me of my fetish for snow and took the luster out of a charming winter day.  Opening up to the idea of Southern California, I planned to explore the area at some point when I started my trip in the beginning of August.

We missed the bulk of LA traffic Wednesday evening, heading into LA along the PCH (Pacific Coastal Highway) from the north.   With constant references to the "Beach Community" depicted in the Big Lebowski, we stopped in Malibu at sunset to check waves and gaze south towards the skyline of LA.  It looked exactly as I expected; clocked in haze and surrounded by suburbs. Pulling back onto the highway, countless Porsches sped by towards an apparent mass family emergency.  "Just as the hippies in Portland had described it," I thought to myself.

A few days of plans turned into nearly two weeks exploring Southern California from Ventura to San Diego.   Using LA as a base, I experienced a place far different from my visual perceptions influenced by but not limited to Terminator 2, Encino Man, China Town, Entourage, Beverly Hills Cop, Pulp Fiction, Boyz in the Hood, Curb Your Enthusiasm and most importantly, the Big Lewbowski.  I avoided the areas with likeness to the Upper East Side of Manhattan,  instead spending my time in grittier places.

Navigating through Silver Lake, Encinatas, Lincoln Heights, and Ventura, I learned to avoid driving at certain times.  Relatively cheap rent, (when compared to NYC), allows people to live life's they couldn't in other large hubs. The food is cheap, the beaches are idyllic and the people nice.  The energy of talented folks in relatively proximity is contagious.  There is a reason that things happen in cities as opposed to on Route 50.

Camp Pendleton.

One if the coolest type 1 VW buses I have seen. San Deigo.

A stones throw from LAX.

Morning light in Ventura.

Preconceived notions are rarely accurate. I'm certainly not ready to park my Syncro here fultime, but consider this acknowledgment of word eating.  It's a place worth experiencing.

All of these photos were shot with film from the Impossible Project, courtesy of Urban Outfitters.

Here are some more links,

Impossible (Picasa).