Clamoring down the 405 freeway northbound out of Los Angeles, I pass the leaden
blanket of marine layer and hot August smog that envelops the L.A. basin on days like this. I am going to Bishop California, and into the gleaming, glacier-polished, granite peaks of the eastern Sierra Nevada.

The purpose of my trip is to retrace the steps of the great John Muir, that vanguard
environmentalist whose indelible image has served as a beacon for generations of white, middle majority, would-be conservationists. Not really. I like the mountains, but I have no desire to dawdle about in them for months on end. The real purpose of my trip is mainly one of self gratification and challenge – hiking, cragging, and peak bagging. My plan is to head over Bishop Pass from the trailhead at Southlake and into the northeastern reaches of Kings Canyon National Park hoping to climb Thunderbolt, and Starlight Peaks.

As I pass through Los Angeles County I can’t help but notice the sad outcomes of a
society built around consumption. Angelinoville megalopolis now stretches north solid for close to 40 miles before terminating for a short time in Canyon Country, only to be picked up again by the ugliness of the farthest northern extension of Los Angeles County – the Antelope Valley. The area was pastoral 30 years ago. What was home to onion farms, kitschy ranchettes, and sheep is now a sprawling commuter metropolis imprinted with tract homes and chain stores. If I was looking for an authentic suburban-commuter consumer experience I know I could find it here. Maybe in a few years I’ll settle down here, buy a whopping suburban home, an SUV, and start popping out kids?

Continuing north on the 14 freeway my wonder doesn’t cease. I am amazed at houses and shopping centers sprouting from the dust washed Mojave Desert like salt crystals forming on a dry lakebed. Rosamond – who would have thought? What can possibly sustain the economy here – dirt sales? I hear rabbit manure is big business these days. The town of Mojave is another case in point. With the new highway 58 bypass steering valuable east west traveler dollars away from the town, will the weekend hordes of off-highway vehicle (OHV) users be enough to float this god-forsaken town of gas stations and hamburger huts?

I am thankful for the OHV users. Without them there would probably never be a Jawbone Canyon store with its roadside billboard of a grotesquely obese, scantily clad woman welcoming me to this highway 395 desert recreation portal. For those less informed “OHVing” is all about staging. Staging areas are areas where groups of OHVers can park the wagon train of motor homes and toy haulers, pop up some sun shades and settle in for a mega dirt-womp-weekend of beer, burger, and hot dog fueled excitement. OHVers needn’t worry about rising fuel prices. There’s never any shortage of gas at these parties.

Beyond Jawbone, the 395 begins to unveil the full beauty of the desert – desolate and
unyielding. Even in a world of cell phones and GPS units the proposition of being
stranded in the Mojave Desert in August is at least mildly discomforting. My mind
conjures images of 70s B-movie horror. I read the newspaper. Strange things happen at desert rest stops. Charlie Manson and his dune buggy commando squad used to reap havoc all over the Mojave Desert. Barker Ranch in Death Valley National Park was where they finally rounded up Charlie and the “Family.”

I had time to think about things like this as I walked the twelve or so miles in triple digit heat and dryer exhaust winds to Pearsonville, where I called a tow truck. 90 miles-perhour with my air conditioner switched to number five was too much for my old radiator.

Automobile Association of America, Platinum Service provided me with a hundred-mile tow. I could have gone on to Lone Pine, maybe Bishop, but I knew the small town service would be slow and pricey. I opted to return to the Antelope Valley, and wait out the long weekend.

I hiked from restaurant to restaurant, then to Barnes and Noble, then to the auto repair place, then to the bus stop, then back to the hotel. I laughed that my chapped lips and sunburn resulted from a hike to the payphone on Highway 395, and not from some high mountain adventure. I was not the conqueror of the high hills, but a lonely sojourner stranded in suburbia.