Joshua Tree and the Theory of Relativity

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When I stopped at the office in Joshua Tree National Park, I was given two warnings.

“You'll need to be self-sufficient in the park. There's no water in the campsites.” The ranger paused. “Also, this time of year it's mostly climbers. They tend to party pretty late. Don't know if that's your thing.”

It seems everywhere I camp there are wild animals. But at least these wouldn't steal my food. Probably. Like raccoons, climbers do have opposable thumbs.

Joshua Tree was other-worldly. I'm not a climber, and so my days were spent hiking through desert landscapes so surreal they were more dream than reality. None of the photos will do it justice. Wandering through stretches of land that seemed like the insides of someone's mind, or the underside of another planet.

The climbers were not the party animals the ranger described.

After a few days, I went to Vegas. Playing poker, I introduced myself to a fellow, Jay, sitting next to me. Turned out we're both doing the same thing, traveling. We were both in the same crappy motel across from the casino, paying $220 a week.

I told him about Joshua Tree. “You should try hiking there on acid,” he said. "It's even more incredible."

Jay had previously been in northern California, working on a pot farm. "It's good money. I just trimmed weed for eight hours a day," he said. We drank beers and played cards for a very long time.

Back at the motel, the faucet tasted disgusting and so I got water from the van and made soup. Self sufficient. I remembered the park ranger. It was 3 a.m. by this point, and I knew the climbers had been asleep for hours.

Perspective

It was a complete-rookie, Vegas-newbie, bush-league-amateur thing to do. I lost my phone and Kindle. It's exactly the sort of thing you expect to happen on your first trip here, but not your tenth.

So it was a bad day. I was feeling like an idiot. Just generally depressed. But as has happened so many times on this trip, someone told me a story about their life that helped me put things in perspective.

The woman at the casino's lost and found told me to report it stolen. “If you report it stolen, they won't be able to reactivate it. If you report it lost, whoever has it may be able to use it,” she said. “If you ask me for something, I might give it to you. But if you take it from me, I'm going to make your life hard.”

There was an anger to the way she said it. And then she explained.

"I'm from an Amish family. We don't really take photographs. My mother died last year, and just before she passed away I went back home and took some pictures with my phone. The only photos I had of her.”

She left her phone in an employee bathroom. “For 12 minutes. That's it. But someone took it.”

And then she handed me back my Kindle. And later that day, I got my phone back. And a little perspective.

Losing Track

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I had booked a couple of nights in one of the lodges that run inside Grand Canyon National Park. And then ...

“I'm sorry, I'm not finding your reservation.”

“I made it online, just the other day.”

“Let me check again … Oh. Your reservation is for tomorrow.”

It took three months, but I'd finally lost track of the days.

The Grand Canyon was incredible. “Grand” may actually be under-selling it. It is epically amazing and fantastic and unreal and …. yeah. It's just that incredible. Also: Overrun by families and kids. Even in winter. I had trouble finding parking, and actually got stuck in a minor traffic jam.

So I canceled the rest of my stay.  

Maps (aka, I should never trust my instincts)

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Years ago, working as a freelance photographer, I kept a detailed road atlas of South Carolina in my car. It was the only way to navigate secondary highways and find small towns. I shot a lot of Friday night football in those days, and some of the high schools are seemingly impossible to locate at night and on deadline.

So when I bought a U.S. atlas before this trip, it was kind of a joke, or a nod to nostalgia. It's 15 years removed from that worn atlas sitting in the passenger seat. These days, my phone gets me where I need to go (most of the time). Just follow the blue dot.

Except good 4G service doesn't exist everywhere. Cell signal can die quickly -- and stay gone for 100 miles. 

Add to that, I have a particularly fallible sense of direction.

Now, the van is filled with maps. The atlas has some circles and X's marking a few towns and routes. Distance charts are great. Hiking maps. National parks, campgrounds. On top of being essential, they are a reminder of the places I've been -- and perhaps more importantly, a reassurance that those places will be there when I get back.

I use Google maps for 90% of all navigation. Follow the blue dot. And it works (mostly). But there are times and places where there is no signal and all you can do is squint at the map and turn it sideways. Hope for a road sign or a trail marker. Absent that, keep going straight.

One thing I've learned: When lost, I should never trust my gut. 

The Cold Changes Things

I camped outside of Santa Fe last night, up a mountain. The temperatures were somewhere around 15 degrees. 

The van stays warm at night. I wouldn't call it comfortable, but with the heater and sleeping bag it does work. The windows freeze -- from the inside -- and mornings are a rush of packing and defrosting, too cold to cook or make coffee outside.

It's still doable, camping at that temperature. But it certainly isn't as much fun.

And so the destination seems like a straight line now, to the left. Southern California, Joshua Tree, L.A., San Diego, who knows. Some place where I don't need five layers, because I'll be honest and admit my cold weather preparations could have used some more work.

I've been without a fixed address for three months now. I like that.

The Bartender

The bartender was a screenwriter. Still unpublished, he said, hence the liquor behind him. I sat in the hotel bar for two hours, letting him talk.

He'd been living in California, trying to sell a script. Got close, too; a producer wanted to make it, but backed out at the last minute. "He had another project, very personal to him," said the bartender. "I understood. But I still went crazy."

I kept ordering bourbons. Two ladies at a table behind me split a turkey burger and each had a glass of wine. One owned an art gallery and the other a marketing firm. I had many bourbons.

"I became a migrant worker," the bartender said.

He said it three times -- "migrant worker" -- which I thought was strange -- and I just kept drinking bourbon. The bartender told me he spent a season landscaping golf courses and living in a $400/month motel.

"I lived across the hall from a prostitute. Sometimes she'd come by and we'd watch movies together. But we never did anything more."

One day she came by and apologized for being so loud. "It's what the guy likes."

The bartender said he kept his motel room spotless. "I cleaned a lot. It helped keep me sane. And of course, there was no cleaning service." One day he got someone else interested in his script, but that fell through also.

"I knocked on my neighbor's door and asked if I could clean her place. That's how upset I was. And then I decided it was time for a change. So I moved to Austin."

The whole thing sounded like a movie script to me -- and maybe one he could actually sell. But I didn't tell him that, figuring maybe I'd write it myself.

He comped the two women their check. One of them knew someone who knew a director, and the bartender was looking for a connection. They tipped him $20, which I took to mean the chances were slim.

I tipped $20 also, for the drinks and his story. When I write it though, he'll sleep with the prostitute, write his script and get it made. It seems like a better ending. He wasn't a happy guy.

The Flip Side

Eyes still red, tired. Dark, unmarked roads, but this time I know where the campsite is.

The same decisions, waiting for the same moments. Nothing changes, the cards just fall different. Don't force it, but wait. That moment, perfection, it will come. Be prepared, accept it -- but don't get attached.

Patience. Faith. 

Did seat 7 have it? Doesn't matter, I like my decision and I still have my chips.

You can't force or plan perfect. It's all the same, all these things we do. The moment will arrive if you're there for it. Just show up.

Flop top two and get it in. Seat 7 calls light. I don't bother to question what this says about the first hand. He's gone now, the seat filled by someone else.

A 50-cent shower in an Oklahoma state park. Good decisions. Good thoughts. The game will be there when I get back.