On the Road Again
Today, we expressed our independence by seeing
some of the sights along Highway 395. Starting out
from, appropriately, Independence, we cruised south
to Lone Pine, gateway to Mount Whitney, the highest
point in the continental United States. There, in
the foothills, the picturesque Alabama Hills
beckoned us, as they did many Hollywood location
scouts of old.
Though you may have never heard of Alabama
Hills, you've seen them if you've watched such old
westerns as "Gunga Din," "The Oregon Trail" and
"How the West Was Won." Even more recent films such
as "Star Trek: Generations" and "Tremors" were
filmed here. Bizarre rock formations of all shapes
and sizes extruded out of the shale. One could
easily picture Hopalong Cassidy or the Lone Ranger
riding amongst the boulders and canyons, hiding
from or pursuing the bad guys.
Further south on the 395, we braved the
100-degree heat to venture out on the lava beds of
Fossil
Falls. Though the blistering sun made the black
rocks too hot to bear for more than a half-hour, we
climbed about on volcanic formations that looked
like they belonged in Hawaii instead of the
California desert.
Looking at the map for other unknown treasures
along our route, we decided to head back up into
the mountains to visit Lake Isabella. On the map,
the lake appeared quite large, and surrounded as it
was by offshoots of the Sequoia National Forest, we
imagined another alpine lake like those we
encountered in Onion Valley. This time, however, we
weren't so lucky. Lake Isabella turned out to be
quite an aquatic playground for the many people
gathered on its dusty dirt banks, but the landscape
more closely resembled that of the high desert to
the east than the forested mountains to the north.
After a brief lunch in Pam's Diner, the local
greasy spoon, we headed back down to the 395.
Our destination for the night was Hesperia, a
blooming high desert town where Lory's brother
lives, but we made one more stop along the way.
Just a mile off the 395 sits a hidden jewel of the
Mojave. Called by some "a living ghost town,"
Randsburg is an old silver and gold mining town
that, like many former mining towns, has become a
burgeoning artists' colony. The main
road—which takes all of 60 seconds to drive
down—features shop after shop full of
antiques, art and other goodies. What I found most
quaint was the real, live "General Store" and the
White House Saloon. At the latter, I bellied up to
the circa-1907 bar and washed the dust of the road
from my throat with an ice-cold pint of Mojave
Red.
My Fourth of July routine most years consists of
planting myself on the beach with lots of beer and
sunscreen, waiting for night to fall and fireworks
to crackle. This year certainly broke that routine,
and provided a much richer experience than I would
have gotten fighting the crowds on the hot
sand.
©2003 Michael
Strickland ALL RIGHTS
RESERVED
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What is "The Daily Strick"?
I have long called
myself a writer, but too often I don't do
what a writer must do daily: write. So
you, dear reader, are the beneficiary of
my resolution to make a positive change in
at least one area of my life. Every single
day of this new year (almost), I will
write something, anything, and post it
here. It is my intention to use this daily
exercise to jump-start my too-long-dormant
creative energies, and perhaps generate
some worthwhile material this year.
Hopefully you will find at least an
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daily musings.
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July Columns:
7/21: Hiatus
7/17: Death Ship
7/16: The Da Vinci Code
7/15: Bad Moon Rising
7/14: Adios, Compay
7/13: Ty Odeh
7/10: Muse
7/6: Memories
7/4: On the Road Again
7/3: Onion Valley
7/2: Happy Independence Day
Previous months in The Archive
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