JTNPBLM

“A desert is a place without expectation.”

~ Nadine Gordimer

I packed up Tuesday morning and left Skoolie Palooza in the rear-view mirror, at least until next January.  I headed into town and picked up my final package from my the post office, mailed a package and closed out my P.O. Box.  I pulled into my favorite spot overlooking the asphalt quarry and settled in for my final night in Ehrenberg for the season.  In the past, that particular spot has served as a good buffer between Skoolie and whatever comes next. It didn’t fail me this time as it was nearly silent, and I could only see the vans and skoolies in the distance. It felt good to decompress after the intensity of Skoolie Palooza.

Wednesday morning I awoke with that mild anxiety that comes with moving day. After years of being self-employed, I still tend to feel a need to rush and get moving when I have something to do in the morning.  I rebelled today, took my time and even had a second cup of coffee before packing up and heading west.

I stopped in Blythe, CA at a new bargain grocery outlet that just opened this week. It is a great store, having many fresh fruits and vegetables, and lots of healthy choices for packaged food. Prices were about 30% less than I’d been paying at Albertson’s up the street.  I put the groceries away and headed west to the BLM land just south of Joshua Tree National Park (Hereafter known as JTNPBLM) I had been hoping all the way that my favorite spot would be open, and indeed it was.  We pulled onto a short road that dead-ended at a wash and set up camp.

As soon as I got my fridge lit (typing that still makes me realize how silly that sounds) and my solar panels out, Cosmo and I took a short hike in the wash.  I stay there every year and have many fond memories of all the nice people I met here in the past.  This time was no different. I met Jeff living across the wash whose house burned down in the Alta Dena fire. He couldn’t afford home insurance, so he lost everything. He bought a tent at some bargain basement store, but it didn’t have tent poles (thus, the $5 price tag).  He improvised with branches and poles he managed to find here in the desert.  He is living off food from the food bank and, from what I can gather, from a sign on the back of his Kia Soul that says “Lost everything in the fire.  Please help.”  I went over to invite him to breakfast, but he was already cooking fried potatoes on a camping stove he borrowed from a friend. I asked if he’d like some eggs and he said he’d love a couple and that he’d gladly cook us breakfast. That’s the world I (mostly) live in:  A man who lost everything in a fire offering to cook breakfast for me.  It’s a much nicer world than the one that blames the fires on DEI and “the libs.”

I get the impression from how quickly he figured things out that he has been homeless before.  He has many blisters from the fire and seems a bit traumatized as he tells me stories about seeing neighbors running down the road with their pajamas on fire.  I made some soup for us from the vegetables he got from the food bank and stuff I had in the van. 

Marcos texted me.  He had stopped to visit me at Skoolie on his way west last week and wanted to stop on his way back east.  He spent the night next to us in JTNPBLM and left this morning to go to Mexico for Meds he was running low on and had trouble getting from the V.A.

Thursday, I made reservations at Fountain Of Youth spa where I take my “vacation” every year.  I’ll head there on Tuesday and stay for a week this time.  My body is already craving those long, hot soaks in one of their many hot tubs. And the thought of taking an indoor shower every day, washing and conditioning my hair and beard without worrying about how much water I’m using feels like a dream come true.

Lessons From The Road: Skoolie Palooza was just not quite the same this year.  It was so good to see my old friends again, but there was a new crowd that seemed to be taking over. The event was infiltrated by the young, trendy “influencers” and I fear Skoolie will go the way of Burning Man—no longer the event it was intended to be, but rather something for the entitled people to cross off their bucket list.  Skoolie has always been an event for sex, drugs and rock and roll, but the “drugs” in the past have always appeared (at least to me) to be gentle. Lots of pot. Some mushrooms. I think of those as drugs that make people behave mostly in a kind and caring way.  This year there was someone selling moonshine, and another person selling balloons filled with nitrous oxide.  I’m not sure what else was prevalent, but I know the moonshine in particular didn’t make anyone nicer. There were reports of fighting between caravans, and another rumor that the police came because someone shot out someone else’s window over an altercation over their dogs running loose.  Fortunately, being on the fringe of the event, I avoided any drama, and I was in bed long before the loud parties started. I was gifted a selenite necklace, a rose quartz bracelet from Leo and a handmade copper ring from Tie Dye Bob’s son. I bought a custom shirt from Bob, and a peacock feather earring from another vendor.  I ate free pancakes on Sunday morning. Those are the experiences that make the event what it has always symbolized for me.  If the other “bad things” are true, then they happened outside my sphere.

Just as I must go into The Empire” to buy groceries and gasoline, it appears that people from “The Empire” feel compelled to enter my world on occasion, to pretend to be one of us so they can post their made up adventures to social media and feel important. I guess my lesson is that the more people I’m around, the more likely I am to encounter the privileged people from The Empire. I am currently on BLM land, with my only neighbor being an older man whose home burned down in the L.A. fires.  He doesn’t appear to be trying to impress anyone.  I talked with him a bit, and he’s just trying to get buy and deal with having lost everything he owns except his compact car. I can assure you that he is a much better neighbor than some of the people I’ve met in their new Mercedes Sprinters, or those in giant Class A rigs.