At times, San Diego came to seem quite characterless and
boring and so, tired of kicking around town, a few of us decided to go for a
trip to the east. Vincent headed out first, taking the rural bus out to a place
called Lake Morena, up in the mountains about three hours east of the city.
Crystal followed the next day and I joined them the day after that. Crystal had
made plans to help out at the farmer’s market so her time was limited but
Vincent and had talked vaguely about going for a bit of a bike tour after
taking the bus as far as it goes. We were interested at traveling on, having a
good chunk of time before the group would be able to leave, and especially
excited at the prospect of making our way into the desert.
Vincent took a bike on the bus and when Crystal met up with
him they spent their time hiking and exploring around the lake, amidst the
boulder-strewn hillsides of the mountains. I got on the bus at three the next
day, with one of the trusty old mountain bikes from the boat. The bus left town
and wound up through the hills. I was having quite a pleasant time, excited
about traveling to new and exciting places when I heard a collective gasp go up
from the bus passengers and out of the corner of my eye saw my bike performing
a riderless wheelie and subsequent backflip across the other highway lane,
narrowly missing a speeding car. The bus driver pulled over and I ran out
across the road, grabbed the damaged bike, and, feeling quite dismayed, put it
back on the bike rack.
My spirits were low and I was feeling quite frustrated at
having a grand unknown adventure go out the window (or fly off the rack as I
should say) so suddenly. The bus driver was apologetic and when we stopped for
a break at a country store, I surveyed the damage. By the looks of it, aside
from bent handlebars and a scuffed seat, the only injury to the bike had been a
severely bent rear wheel. I asked the kid at the register in the shop about
where I might find a new wheel, to no avail, and stepped out to have a look at
the bike alongside the bus driver. The driver was very apologetic that bike had
managed to squirt out of the rack and mentioned that he might be able to look
around that night for another wheel in Tecate, the Mexican border town in which
he lived. Shortly thereafter a woman, one of the few passengers remaining on
the bus, spoke to the driver in speedy Spanish, telling him that she had an old
bike at her house that I could use.
We all got back aboard and the bus drove on. When we got to
the woman’s driveway, the driver told me to be quick and I ran up to the house
to find a few old mountain bikes out back. I picked one up and the woman, just
arriving at the house told me to take the whole bike, as I was in a hurry and
she didn’t have any wrenches to remove a wheel. So back down the driveway I
ran, throwing the derelict bike on the rack and we were off again. Before long
we came to the end of the run and off I went with the two bicycles, greeted by
Crystal and Vincent. We spent the night at the lake and the following morning,
fixed the bike, and saw Crystal off on the bus back to San Diego in the
morning. The bus driver took the other bike back to the woman and I thanked him
greatly for his help in turning around such a disastrous situation. Knowing
well that we would potentially be headed for hot sunny places, I had brought
four large white pillowcases to be used as head-wraps of some sort and we
donned these and our sunglasses, ready to hit the road.
All this was the beginning of a grand adventure that first
took us up and up into the Cleveland National Forest and back down to the town
of Julian. Going was slow and squeaky, as we were both riding old mountain
bikes from the boat. We were also carrying our gear in backpacks rather that
panier bags but despite all this, our spirits were high and our appetite for
adventure and new places kept us happily pushing forward. After a long day of
riding we slept out in the hills above Julian and came into town early in the
morning.
At this point we found ourselves at the divided between
coastal San Diego and the desert over the mountains to the east. We had been
himming and hawing over the idea of going down into the desert since dreaming
up the trip. Everyone we met, from San Diego to Julian, with whom we shared the
idea told us that we’d be crazy to head into the heat but it was all too easy
that morning, with the allure of the desert below, to head down the winding
road to the east. We filled up all our jugs of water and down we went.
Our travels took us miles and miles downhill into dry
country, desolate valleys, and intense heat. By 10 am, we had reached our
destination: the town of Borrego Springs. We celebrated our arrival with some
ice cream and then spent the rest of the afternoon and early evening waiting
out the intense heat of the day at the Anza-Borrego State Park Visitor Center.
We had a lot fun hanging out with the staff and learning about the park. Around
six, we headed out on the road again bound for Coyote Canyon in the northwest
corner of the park. We rode past acres and acres of citrus orchards as well as
dry wasteland that was at some point agriculture land of some sort. Soon enough
the road turned from pavement into sand and we pressed on.
Riding in the sand was no easy task and as the sun went
behind the mountains, a fierce headwind sprang up. We continued on in the dark
for some time, fighting our way up the road, but before long we gave in for the
night, not quite knowing our destination or how far away it was. There was
little shelter to be found from the strong gusts but we were able to tuck our
heads behind a sign by the side of the road and get a little sleep, in spite of
the light of the moon.
In the morning we awoke before the sun and rode on and in
just a few minutes came to a place where a running stream crossed the road.
Incredible! To find running water in such a barren place was truly astonishing.
Even though we had heard that water might be running in the canyon, it was
something different to see in in person.
We continued to the end of the road
and spent the rest of the early morning hiking about, past an oasis and along
the creek, exploring the incredible, surreal landscape before returning to the
first water we had found.
Here we passed the afternoon, soaking ourselves in the creek
and hiding in the bushes under the shade of a makeshift tent structure. When
the time came, we got back on our trusty steeds and headed back for Borrego
Springs. This time we took a different route, past a different camp that
fortunately for us still had running water in the faucets despite the season.
We rode out of the camp and found ourselves again surrounded by orange
orchards. Thinking that we could take a shortcut by riding through one of the orchards (on a road that
looked no different than the roads which we were to travel on) we cut through a
line of trees and started riding, only to be caught moments thereafter by the
farmer himself! At first quite angry with us for trespassing he berated us for
being on his property and for being out in the desert on bikes at this time of
year. He escorted us back to the spot where we entered the orchard and I
apologized again as we headed for the cut. He was checking on an enormous
irrigation pump and as he did he explained his anger which stemmed from the
disrespect and damage caused by people who had trespassed before. We expressed
our sympathy and got to talking a bit more. Soon enough he offered to drive us
out to the main road (the destination of our original shortcut) as he was
headed that way anyways. On the road out he stopped to let us pick a few
handfuls of figs from one of his trees and told us even more about his place
and life. By the time we reached the road we were quite friendly and we stood
around the truck talking, sharing the stories of our adventures as well as
hearing the stories of his life and the wisdom that he had gained. After a good
long while he hopped back in is truck wished us his best and bid us goobye, all
three of us expressing great gratitude for having met one another. Off he drove
and we rode on. This was possibly the best trespassing experience I’ve ever
had.
In all our conversation about heading into the desert we had talked of Anza-Borrego
but also of the Salton Sea. Now only thirty miles away, we couldn’t resist the
continued eastward pull and we turned left before reaching Borrego Springs. A
darkness fell, we rode down and down, across great desert plains, and through
vast canyonlands before reaching Salton City around 9:30 pm. We were throwing
caution to the wind in continuing so far east to a place much hotter and
desolate than Anza-Borrego but the downhill ride made it all worth it. At dusk,
as we sped down out of the mountains down to the great flats below, I could not
help but feeling like we were in some prehistoric land, devoid of humans but
full of ancient creatures living in a land that was still young and raw, forming
before our eyes. Truly amazing.
After another celebratory ice cream at the gas station we
rode several miles through the abandoned subdivisions of Salton City. The land
between the freeway and the lake had been developed, gridded out with streets and
powerlines, but the project had flopped for some reason and the land has been
left just so ever since. We got an eerie sense from the place riding though
under the full moon, pas the few inhabited houses and even one that had been
burned, seemingly obvious to us, in order to get insurance money for a house
that was worthless. Again we rode until the pavement turned to sand and
although we could sense that we were near the beach, we stretched out our bags
and fell asleep.
Know full well how hot it was going to be in the morning, we
were up at the crack of dawn and continued riding towards the beach. In only a
matter of minutes the lake stretched out before our eyes and soon we were
standing on the shore.
Although it was only 6 am, it was already quite hot and we
could smell a stench coming off the lake. The flats approaching the beach as
well as the shore consisted of a very slimy mud that caked on our shoe s and
smell quite foul. There were “tidelines” of thousands and thousands of fish
skeletons as we approached the water, along with a number of dead birds and
fields of crystallized salt. We walked to the water, tested for salinity, and
quickly resolved to get out of the hellish place. We made our way along the
shore and then along a road back out to the freeway. In the light, we could see
even more of the crazy place: empty street after empty street named after
Hawaiian island or foreign countries and vast tracts of bulldozed earth under
miles of powerlines. Apparently the water level has dropped significantly since
development was done as we saw boat launches that came far from touching the
water and docks that lay high and dry on the mud.
When we got to the freeway, we rode a few feet up the road
back to Borrego Springs and stuck out our thumb. It was now 8 am and the
temperature must have been climbing up to 100 degrees. We laughed and joked
about our situation, and then talked seriously, reassuring ourselves that it
would indeed be possible to ride all those miles back up the hill after things
cooled down in the night. All the same, this sounded like a dreadful prospect.
We waited and waited, put on more sunscreen and drank more water, and then
suddenly a truck stopped. The driver asked with a smile where we were going and
said he could take us. With threw everything in the truck and we were off! As
we drove the man told us how lucky we were because he was actually driving up
and over the mountains from Borrego Springs. For several hours he talked on and
on about his life, the wisdom he had gained and his views of the world.
Although such cases can often be thoroughly overwhelming, the man seemed to
have enough interesting things to say and life experience from which to draw.
He dropped us off in Jenner and we rode down the boulder-covered hills, into the
suburbs of San Diego, catching the trolley and riding all the way back into
town.
For many more pictures of the trip visit our Picasa site at:
