Mojave Thoughts

Bakersfield, CA

Driving across the desert is the equivalent of a morning shower. Now, now, hear me out. The shower is solitary, quiet and somewhat boring, so I do all my best thinking there. The desert is solitary, quiet and really boring, so as I was driving along the 239-mile stretch of open, dusty road from Barstow to Bakersfield, I began to mentally wander.

Some idle thoughts: The Mojave is dry and dusty. It makes the word arid sound moist.

I talked to my son briefly, and he informed me I needed to say the word Mojave right. He contended that it was Moh-Jav. I’m not that gullible, Heff.

Not one hour after having our coach washed in Barstow to the tune of $52, we drove through a swarm of bees. We scored 25 direct hits and countless ricochets. The only thing that makes it worthwhile is that everyone has suffered the same buggy insult, including that annoying vintage T-Bird who passed me on the right and then had the nerve to honk at me for being in the left lane. I would have moved over, but there was an idiot next to me.

We pass a Frito-Lay truck and the driver is eating a sandwich. I think to myself, “I wonder if he’s having chips with that.”

This desert doesn’t look like my idea of a desert. I have a pristine vision in my head: miles and miles of white, sparkling sand, impossible to walk on without snowshoes, but great if you’re on a horse. I guess I’m Lawrence of Arabia. This desert is brown sandy dirt, with brown mountains on the horizon and scrub in all shades of brown.

(The next morning, another wanderer told us to take 99 North to Tahoe for some great scenery. Then he added the clincher. A two-lane road through the desert. Uh, I don’t think so.)

On passing Tehachapi, I think that the language of the Native Americans, with all its iiiii’s and breath stops between syllables is a lot like Welsh with all its consonants and braubrichthinwhichglaglydds that are equally impossible to decipher. So do you suppose the Navajo could learn Welsh faster than we not-native Americans?

Some seventy miles into the Mojave stands a sign that reads, “Land for Sale.” Why? Who would buy some desert? For what purpose? And have they experienced a drop in property values like the rest of us? Could you get it for a real steal?

We pass Edwards Air Force Base, and I notice brand-new tar roads on either side of the highway. What’s up with that? Why would anyone put a black tar road in one of the hottest places in the country? Today it’s 104 and this is Mid-October. When I was a little girl I stepped in tar in the Jones Beach parking lot and was burned so badly the whole car of us had to turn around and go home. Then I realize. This isn’t a road. It’s human fly paper, designed to catch and severely maim any terrorists who might be thinking they’d invade Edwards and stage a coup from there. I feel so much safer now.

After miles of nothing, we hit a town. Eighteen tin shacks, one stop light, and 468 truck, car and washing machine carcasses. What do they produce here? Rust? Then my appetite for the comic is sated when I spot the single store in town. A lean-to with a Coke machine out front. It called The Emporium.

Why do they close rest stops? All they are is a pull-off from the road. Are they trying to get us to rest less and exercise more?

In Tehachapi, amid the miles and miles of brown, there is a swath of green that is surrounded by 16 tall green cypresses. I was so curious at this anomaly that I went on line to find out. Nothing about the curious little park and how it got there. I did, however, learn that Tehachapi’s biggest industry is the California State Correctional Institution. The thought passes through my mind: free labor?

As we head through the last pass through the mountains, I leave the desert and head into one of California’s famous valleys where riots of nuts, fruits and wine grapes are happily growing. So why, I wonder, in the middle of all this lush greenery, is there a town called Weedpatch? Isn't that just a little counterintuitive? Would you want a beautiful orange from Weedpatch?

That thought has barely left my head when I spot two leathery looking men beneath beach umbrellas fishing in a man-made canal. What would they catch? Fish sticks?

Betty