Anza-Borrego 2014

The Journey Begins

It would seem that if you are reading this you would recognize that I was successful in attaining my camping destination.  If not, let me state the obvious: one, you are too dumb to continue, go back to watching television; two, I was successful in reaching my camping destination.

My campground of choice is Palm Canyon Campground in the Anza-Borrego Desert State Park.  It was one of my first desert experiences dating back to my Boy Scout days.  Our troop never camped here; it is far too sophisticated a facility for that caliber of group.  We instead camped at Tamarisk Grove (also administered by the State Parks) but much more primitive in its amenities, at least back in 1967.  Whenever our troop camped at Tamarisk grove, the focus activity of the outing was a car trip to Palm Canyon.  And that feature is still the big draw to this location.  The canyon drains the mountains to the west.  There is a relatively easy hike of about one-and-a-half miles that takes the explorer to an oasis, complete with year-round pools and thick with palm trees, thus the name.

While still quite the attraction, a flash flood (I believe in 2000) resulted in some major damage to the grove.  The hike up the trail is now littered with fallen palm trees and the pools are smaller, shallower and somewhat more difficult to access because of boulders that were displaced by the rushing water.  The last time I took a stroll up the canyon was in November of 2012.  For me, it was a bit of a disappointment, but for a first timer, it is still quite impressive and I highly recommend it.

But the canyon is not my focus for this trip.  I am using the campground as a base of operations for day excursions into the desert.  There are many dirt tracks and jeep trails out there offering a perfect opportunity to exercise my Land Cruiser.  Tomorrow, if the road is open, I will attempt a sojourn up Rockhouse Road.  I don’t know if I’ll find the rock house, but even if I don’t it will be a new experience.  That brings us to today’s (Monday, February 17, 2014) events.

For those unfamiliar with my possession driven life, I own a GMC Sierra 3500 pickup truck on which I mount a Lance Camper.  I tow a 1975 Toyota Land Cruiser behind, adding up to be one heavy rig.  The truck and camper alone weigh in at about 11,000 lbs.  The Land Cruiser adds about another 3,500 lbs.  These technical details are necessary for you to understand the next paragraph.

To my everlasting shame, I wimped out today.  My original plan was to reach Palm Canyon Campground via Montezuma Grade (County Road S-22) which ends within a mile of the park gate.  I have driven the grade several times before, but never towing the Land Cruiser.  The trip takes only about one hour from my home in Valley Center.  But the more I looked at the map and remembered the combination of extreme elevation drop and hair-pin turns involved in making the descent to the desert floor, the less attractive that option became.

So, discretion being the better part of survival, I opted for the less challenging route along San Filipe Valley (S-2) to scissors crossing.  This adds about thirty or thirty-five minutes to the one-way trip.  But it saves about two gallons of sweat!

I arrived at the campground about two-thirty in the afternoon.  It has been a bit gusty which is not unusual, but as I write this, it is well after dark and still blowing a bit.  The campground is tucked into the folds of the mountains to the west, so dusk begins pretty early.  By four o’clock I was ready to start cooking dinner.  I know what you are thinking; God you’re getting old.  But my motivation is really more related to the ability to see what I am doing than my need for nourishment.  I just don’t like to cook in the dark; sorry.

On the menu tonight; filet mignon and creamed corn.  I know a lot of people who think meal preparation and consumption are the key elements to camping.  I feel just the opposite; the simpler the better.  And what is simpler that grilling a piece of steak and heating a can of vegetables?

The steak was superb.  I timed the cooking just right.  Now I know a lot of men who feel underfed if they haven’t downed a twenty ounce T-bone, but I prefer the tender appeal of the more diminutive cuts.  I would rather caress seven ounces of heaven with my tongue than chew through two-and-one-half pounds of gristle and fat.  The cream corn could have been warmer.  And there is room left the Girl Scout Cookies I bought when I did my trip grocery shopping.   

Dammit!

As advertised, I started the day with the intention of exploring Rockhouse Canyon.  But first, breakfast.  One cannot undertake the rigors of land navigation without sustenance.  So it was to be scrambled eggs with bacon and cheese.  I use pre-cooked bacon.  Now I know there are those purists out there that consider this heresy.  But the cost is more than offset, in my mind, by the time savings one enjoys by not having to clean the camp stove after frying bacon.  Bacon is messy.  Even handling precooked bacon renders ones hands greasy.  I had broken the bacon into small pieces and added to that three eggs in a frying pan.  Unfortunately as the bacon and eggs began to cook, I found that my fingers were too slick to open the package of shredded cheese.  Once eggs begin to cook, there is no time for fooling about.  The cheese would have to wait for another day.  Even without the cheese, breakfast was enjoyable.

After performing the day’s campsite maintenance, I was ready to go.  The author of the guide book I was using suggested that the road to Rockhouse Canyon progressed from easy to difficult and the explorer (that’s me, in case you’re wondering) would proceed as far as their fortitude and their vehicle would allow.

On the way out of the campground, I stopped at the visitor’s center to peruse the book and map offerings.  True to form, they saw me coming and were glad to collect the fifty dollars I spent to expand my library.  The volunteer who made the sale of the day had little of value to offer about Rockhouse Canyon, but I could swear I heard one of the paid staff mumbling something under her breath about rookies.  As the visitor center was full of park guests, I assumed she was making fun of somebody else.

The road to Rockhouse Canyon is about ten miles from Palm Canyon Camp Ground beginning at Borrego Salton Seaway (S-22).  The first part of the road travels through and Off-Highway recreation area.  Even though this was Tuesday morning, there were still several Mega RVs left from the three day weekend.  I would guess some of these rigs cost more than my house.  Although I was making my observations from a distance, it appeared these campers were fighting through the hangovers originated by the previous night’s revelry.  No one was flitting about on loud, bouncy machines.

As I proceeded out of the OHV area, I skirted Clark Dry Lake to my right.  With each passing mile, the road got uglier.  It was bedded with crushed rock which makes for uncomfortable motoring.  Then, finally, the road bed shifted to sand: Smooth, quiet sand.  For a couple miles this was a welcome change.  Then, about eight miles in, I noticed the sand was getting deeper and softer, and I was beginning to experience difficulty in both speed and steering control.  Finally, the fun came to an abrupt halt.  I was stuck, and that rhymes with (ya’ know), and that stands for trouble!

Now I’ve been stuck in sand before.  In fact, those experiences are what convinced me to invest in a four-wheel drive utility vehicle in the first place.  Now, here I was, in my sooped-up, over-blown, hybrid, earth-crushing machine and still facing the prospect of hiking out, finding someone with a vehicle that could winch me to firmer ground, and happily forking over cash for the privilege of being humiliated.  For several moments I considered just sitting there until I died from dehydration and let whatever lucky traveler discovering the Land Cruiser have her.  Then I said to myself (mostly ‘cause nobody I know is stupid to go on these excursions with me), “No! Not this time dammit!  I can beat this thing.”

I decided I was going to get that Toyota out of their like a man, or blow it up trying.  I put it in reverse and gave it hell.  It moved a foot or so and began to dig in.  I shifted into low; it moved forward a few inches before it bogged down.  Reverse.  Forward.  Digging in.  Punching out, each time working to gain a few degrees of rotation that would put me in the direction of home (metaphorically, I don’t really live in the Anza-Borrego desert).  After what seemed an hour of moving that beast inch by inch, listening for the soul crushing sound of mechanical failure, but what was probably no more than ten minutes, I got her on to better roadbed and away we went; leaving fate behind at a blistering pace of two miles per hour.  Thank you, Toyota. Thank, you Chevy.  And thank you, B.F. Goodrich.  By the time I got back to the paved road, I was ready for more.  Kind of shows you what makes me tick, don’t it?

Seeing it was only about 11:30, I decided to pull out my map and look for another opportunity to end my storied existence.  The location, Seventeen Palms, caught my eye.  Maybe it was my career in accounting, but anything stated with that much mathematical specificity must be audited.  The turn-off to Seventeen Palms was only about eight miles east from where I was; Tally-ho!

The trail begins at the Arroyo Salado (primitive) campground and proceeds 3.7 miles southeast where you encounter a short turnoff to the Seventeen Palms.  This was a well known travelers’ land mark and oasis during the nineteenth century.  Unfortunately, the presence of water is intermittent.  To aid fellow travelers, visitors to the oasis when she was wet would fill bottles with water and leave them for pilgrims who might encounter the site during a dry phase.  It also became an ad hoc “post office” where travelers would leave letters for others to carry if they happened to be headed in the right direction.  The current state of our drought being what it is, there was no water present during my visit.  I did not count the trees.  If the California State Park system is confident enough to mark the area with a sign proclaiming there are seventeen palms, then who am I to question?

I proceeded forward on Arroyo Salado until I encountered a sign indicating I had reached Five Palm Springs.  It was a bit of an uphill hike to achieve these palms, so I took a picture from the bottom of the hill instead.  I shifted my direction of travel westerly by way of Basin Wash and encountered, no you would never have guessed, not four, or three, or two palms, but Una Palma.  That’s right, for some reason, somebody named this lone palm tree, Una Palma; go figure.

Leaving Una Palma, I turned northwest on Basin Wash for about two miles then southwest on Cut Across Trail.  Cut Across Trail serves as a boundary line between Bureau of Land Management (BLM; Feds) to the south and State Parks jurisdiction to the north.  I was glad to encounter this split as BLM provides much more and meaningful signage than Gov. Brown’s crew.  Anyone who has practiced land navigation understands the importance of signage in reconciling ones position on earth with that of the map.

Cut Across Trail runs about six-and-one-half miles as it skirts the northwest corner of the Ocotillo Wells State Vehicular Recreation Area, a place to avoid on winter weekends.  As I crossed San Filipe Wash, the name of the route changed to Butte Canyon for no obvious reason.  I stopped at this intersection to orient myself.  When I was satisfied that I was still on the planet Earth, I reached down for my Ray-Bans, and they were gone!  How can one lose a pair of sunglasses in the space of three minutes when one had not moved?  I checked up, down, over and under to no avail.  It was if my shades had been the victim of an alien abduction.  Maybe some passing Grays (if you don’t know what “Grays” are, you need to watch more “Big Bang Theory”- CBS Thursday: nine o’clock) mistook them for a fallen comrade (because Ray-Bans have alien-eye shaped lenses… oh, now you get it) and effected a rescue.

Just as I was giving up on retrieving my sunglasses, up drives a Nissan Sentra and pulls to a stop. The sole occupant of the car exits and approaches, “Hey, do you know how to get to the nearest paved road from here?”

Cautious that this may be a test of my good character (I always expect that chance encounters with people of lower intelligence than mine are some kind of test), I assess the guy’s physical appearance and manner.  His speech betrayed him as a resident of one of those eastern states like New York or New Jersey where English is not part of the public school curriculum.  He was wearing a scooped neck t-shirt, sporting gold chains and completing his ensemble with loafers; definitely not a desert rat.  As I was still mentally occupied with the disappearance of my protective eye-wear, I decided to forego inquiries into the series of events that landed him in a rental car, in a wash, in the Southern California Desert.  Now, and for the rest of my life, I will regret passing up that opportunity.

“Well, let’s have a look at this map.”

He gave me a dubious look, “Oh. So you don’t know!

I lowered my voice a register or two, fixed his gaze with mine to re-establish the lost wanderer and Samaritan roles and emphasized, “I have a map!

I pointed out to him where we were on the map and indicated the Butte Canyon was the best choice.  I have to admit that the speed with which I was able to bowl him over with information was due to the fact I had just been asking myself the same question before he arrived. “Just make a turn here and follow this road.  In three miles, you will be at highway 78.”

“Will I be able to get this car through?”

“I’m not sure,” hoping to instill a little fear into his already exasperated state of mind. “But I’ll be right behind you if you get stuck.”

With that he bid me farewell and motored off in the direction I had indicated.  I decided to give him a bit of a head start and performed one more search for my sunglasses; no luck.

Giving up and noting how thankful I was it happened to be somewhat overcast, I followed the tread marks of our eastern explorer into Butte Canyon, which is true to its name.  I have to admit, like so many things in San Diego County, they are a mere shadow of what other locales offer. You wouldn’t travel to Utah and exclaim to the natives that, “Hey, we have buttes just like that where I come from!”  But for our understated little corner of the world, these buttes did nicely.

I eventually busted out of the canyon into the OHV rec area and down the slope to highway 78.  I did not encounter our foundering friend along the way so I will assume he made it out safe, or was waylaid by some errant prospector for the gold chains he was wearing.

From there it was an easy hop back to the campground and a shower.  I opted to drive back into Borrego Springs for dinner.  I chose Carlee’s, a combination restaurant and sports bar.  The Kentucky Wildcats were embarrassing the Ole Miss Runnin’ Rebels (like that’s a surprise) in the televised basketball game.  I had the Carlee Burger.  It was good.  Upon my return to the campground, I pulled out my fine toothed comb and did a circle search for my sunglasses.  It must have been while I was eating dinner, the Grays realized their mistake and returned my shades, leaving them under the gas tank (yes, the gas tank is under the passenger seat, inside the vehicle); clever little intergalactic travelers.

My Aching Butt

As day three dawned (literally), I decided I would try something less butt clenching than four-wheeling through my arch-nemesis, sand.  I had always wanted to drive around the east side of Salton Sea and being half-way there seemed to make it the perfect opportunity.

I opted to breakfast in town this morning and happened upon a family restaurant in the Denny’s motif, Kendall’s Café.  The bacon and cheese omelet was serviceable but not worth a special trip.  The fresh fruit in lieu of potatoes (I just can’t understand the attraction to a flavorless vegetable swimming in grease and salt) was very fresh and ripe (hello, Denny’s, are you listening?).  The English muffin was okay, but they hadn’t any boysenberry preserves.  How is one supposed to get seeds between their teeth if there is no boysenberry preserves?  What is one to do with ones tongue all day with no boysenberry seeds in ones teeth?  But I digress.

The route starts as it had on day two; S-22 east but now all the way to Salton City.  When I reached the Imperial County line, the road surface changed drastically to the worst paved, publicly maintained road I have as yet to be jostled by.  I was thinking of turning back and revisiting the horrors of Rockhouse Canyon.

Just as I was about to invoke the name of my dear sainted mother (bless her eternal soul), I reached the junction with CA-86 and turned north toward Mecca (California, not Saudi Arabia).  To get to the other side (does that make your inner chicken a bit nervous) you must travel north to head south.  If that makes no sense, look at a map (of California, preferably).  There was no reason to visit Salton City.  I have been there, twice (once under duress, thank you Frank) and that is two more times than anyone needs.  Unfortunately, Salton City is just an omen of what was to come.

A little bit south of Mecca, CA-86 intersects CA-111 (via a slight jog on CA -195) and curves around the northern end of Salton Sea.  To my disappointment, it was an overcast day in the desert rendering the surface of the sea indistinguishable from the sky.  Normally, Salton Sea is a shining blue gem in a taupe landscape.  There are a depressing number of failed, boarded up resort oriented businesses on the sea shore; marinas, resorts, camp grounds.  It seems the only thriving venture is that funded by the State of California as the Salton Sea Recreation Area in a series (I believe I counted three, but there could have been four… ugly is ugly and precision does not dilute the truth) of campgrounds; surprisingly somewhat occupied.

To my delight, running adjacent to the highway on the east, is a Union Pacific Rail line (my maps, and the bridge labeling indicate it is the Southern Pacific, but that entity was absorbed some years ago in one of the great evil mergers of all time… anything that reduces the number of storied rail lines is an evil merger) and I was pleased to encounter several trains sitting on the tracks as I plunged southward.  Eventually, the reason for the idle equipment became apparent as I encountered a series of work crews engaged in major rail rehabilitation.  It’s always amazing to see modern track laying machinery in action.  They have the appearance of giant insects.

Eventually I reached the community of Bombay Beach which is sited on bit of land that juts southward into the sea. I turned in to take a look.  There should be warning signs posted, “Caution, genetic testing in progress!  Enter at your own peril!”  I am sure in some distant time, someone had a plan, as the town is laid out in a traditional grid pattern.   But today, the only purpose one could imagine for Bombay Beach’s existence is as an archeological experiment to observe how a once mighty civilization crumbles. The population here has just given up!  As I meandered down the main street, I encountered the local tavern.  It seemed to be the only business in operation.  There was a couple in the parking lot and the woman waved at me.  She did not smile and I appreciated the courtesy as I am sure her tooth count would have been much lower than normal… things that make you say, “Brrrr!”  I cruised up and down a few of the residential streets.  I couldn’t tell who led in the dereliction count, burned out trailer homes or junked cars.  Even the fire station seemed to boast ownership of abandoned fire trucks. I had no reason to stop and make contact with the locals.

Back to the highway and on with my quest, I headed to the next metropolis on the map, Niland.  This gem of the desert is Bombay Beach maybe thirty years ago.  They had a tavern and a grocery store.  The houses were a bit better maintained at it appeared mine was not the only operational motor vehicle in town; maybe the only one with paint on it though.

At Niland, the highway turns straight south as the shoreline of the sea begins to arc into its southern extreme.  Land use turns agricultural.  I progressed southward to Caplatria then to Brawley.  My intent was to visit Calexico which is a border town with Mexico, the town of the other side of the border is named Mexicali; see the word play?  But by Brawley my ass was getting sore and my right ankle stiff from holding the accelerator pedal at a constant angle; the Land Cruiser has no cruise control.  But as with the best of plans, personal comfort outweighs goal achievement.  I stopped in Brawley at a Carl’s Junior and enjoyed a grilled chicken sandwich.  I know, there are those long time fans out there who are disappointed I didn’t sample some of the local Mexican fare.  But I am camping and my site is about two hundred yards from the nearest flush toilet.  I was taking precautions against disruption of my delicate gastrointestinal balance.  NO!  Nobody poops in the camper.  The tenets of polite society forbid I go into detail.

I topped off the tanks at a convenient gas station and away I went.  The course back to the campsite was pretty straight forward; CA-86, 78 north to the split, the CA-78 west.  The U.S. Border Patrol operates an inspection station at the split.  And true to form, the Agent was more interested in my unusual motor vehicle than he was concerned about the possible presence of any contraband. We had a short discussion which I am sure further exacerbated the line of drivers behind me.  Well, it sucks to be uninteresting!

Back at the camp, I cooked the remaining filet for dinner, but with green beans in the place of creamed corn.  It was delicious.  I built a fire in the fire ring and spent the evening staring at the flames, eating Girl Scout Cookies, drinking milk and pondering the nature of the universe and my place in it; sorry, giving you the answer would be cheating… you have to figure it out yourself.  But here’s a hint: Girls Scout Cookies grease the gears of philosophical wanderings.

Up, But Not Down

Morning, of course, started with breakfast.  Well, I showered first, then had breakfast.  On today’s menu was Italian Sausage and scrambled eggs. This time I managed to get the shredded cheese package open before I got my hands greasy.  You might say I’m a fast learner, or you might not.

After the dutiful cooking, eating and cleaning, I turned my attention to the day’s recreational possibilities.  As it was to be my last full day in the desert, I wanted to engage in something noteworthy without having to drive all day to achieve it.  Consulting my maps, I discovered that Coyote Canyon, a rather well-known off-road excursion, was only about two miles north of Borrego Springs.  I saddled up, and away I did ride.

The trail begins at the end of De Giorgio Road.  Coyote Canyon is a nature preserve for Big Horn sheep.  It is closed to the public during the hotter months of the year in order to make it Big Horn friendly as Coyote Creek is there only source of water during that period.

The track starts out easy enough with an excursion through a sandy bottom wash.  While flashbacks to Tuesday’s experience in Rockhouse Canyon stirred the butterflies in my stomach to life, I never encountered anything as soft and deep as that in which I had become stuck.  Along the way I encountered signs warning of the progressively rough nature of the road and recommendations that only fools in 4x4’s should attempt this.  I seemed as qualified as any.

I passed Desert Garden which is a quaint little picnic spot but after reading the interpretive signs explaining who had built it and why I was still none the wiser.  Then there was the historical marker neatly hidden in a bush and pointing in a way that travelers proceeding in either direction might miss it.  The focus was some dribble about de Anza and his exploration (or exploitation, if your sympathies lie with the locals), but I can look him up on the internet when I get home so why commit the details to memory.

Shortly thereafter, I encountered four crossings of Coyote Creek (as each was progressively sign posted; crossing 1, crossing 2, crossing 3, and of course, crossing 4).  The creek had considerable water in it as was flowing at a rippling pace.  This is significant, as one does not often encounter free flowing water in this desert.  The crossings were relatively shallow, just reaching the lower rim of my wheels.  I would imagine, that during a wetter year, these could become quite challenging crossings.

At about four miles in, I found the reason for the ominous warnings.  Ahead of me was a rock strewn hill with about a thirty degree ascent.  Well, this is why I bought the Toyota in the first place so here we go.  With your indulgence, I am going to get a bit geeky-technical on you now.  If I lose you, just skip ahead a few paragraphs to learn if I lived or died.

My Land Cruiser is somewhat modified.  I (and when I say I, I mean I wrote the checks to the guy who did the modifications… as any good Republican can tell you, talent and effort are important, but capital is king) replaced the original engine with a Chevy 350 V-8 and the transmission with a NV4500 five-speed manual.  The transmission features a compound low, or under-drive known in the vernacular as a granny gear.  When teamed with the Toyota transfer case, which offers a low range 4-wheel drive speed, it yields an almost unimaginable amount of climbing power to the wheels.  The result is; if you can get traction, you can climb it.  This capability came in very handy in conquering the terrain at hand.

Although the ascent was a bit uncomfortable from all of the bouncing, the Land Cruiser climbed the hill with ease; and the next one; and the next one.  There were three of these hills in quick succession.  By the time I reached the crest, I had a breathtaking view of Combs Peak (elev. 6193, putting it in the upper tier of San Diego County topographical features) and Bucksnort Mountain (Bucksnort; hee, hee, hee).  In the foreground below lay Sheep Canyon.  The canyon view offered several palm clustered oasis and was remarkably lush compared to the arid basin of which I had just driven out.

Most of the literature I have read on the subject of off-road exploration strongly suggest that the activity be pursued with at least two vehicles.  That way, one can lie back while the other test questionable conditions ahead.  If the lead vehicle fails to negotiate the terrain and becomes disabled or stuck, the occupants need only walk as far back as the waiting vehicle where a reasonable recovery plan can be developed and executed.  This wise approach was of no help to me on this particular day because, I was alone.

Before me lay a drop of equally severe vertical travel as I had just climbed.  I had no doubt with my vehicle’s ultra-low gearing I could safely navigate into the valley.  But I was unsure of the nature of the road surface and from my vantage point, it looked pretty sandy.  I did not have the confidence that once in the basin, I could climb my way out.  And of what I had read of this trek, it was a dead-end route: One way in, turn around, same way out.

So there I was, standing on the precipice both literally and philosophically.  Did I revert to my usual immature mind set and throw caution to the wind?  Or should I let less passionate reason prevail and quit while I was ahead?  Age and experience combined to yield a recipe of caution on this day and I turned back to Borrego, saving the promise of this experience for a future day when better equipped for the challenge.

On the way out I encountered a party of elderly folk (yes, older even than I) inbound driving a Honda Element.  They were idling as one of their party was examining something of interest at the side of the road.  I stopped and inquired of the driver if she had driven this road before.  She had not.  I generously, but with a bit of authority born of experience, suggested that she turn around at the next water crossing as her vehicle would not survive the rigors of the route beyond that point.  She thanked me for my kind advice, stating that she had hoped that they would get lucky and that her car was equipped with all-wheel-drive.  I pointed out the difference between her ground clearance and mine.  I opined on the subject of street tires vs. off-road tires.  I believe I sold her on the finer points of life or death in the desert, but I did not wait to observe her behavior.  On the last leg out of the canyon, I was passed by a party of two Jeeps headed in (gee, I wish I had friends) and was certain they would be able to render assistance if necessary.

Upon my reentry to Borrego Springs, I dedicated my efforts tracking down a merchant offering ice cream comestibles.  I found a quaint shop whose signage promised milk shakes.  I opted for the chocolate malt and my craving was well serviced.  Later that evening, the days repast was completed with carnitas and margaritas at Carmellita’s Mexican Bar and Grill.  Then back to the campground, where I found I was too full and mellow for writing, so I burned up the rest of firewood, searching for the meaning of everything.

Home Again, Home Again, Jiggity Jig

And so, it has finally arrived; the day of departure.  Up with the sun, I busily cleaned up the camp, packed my accoutrements and readied the equipment.  As it was only about eight o’clock and check-out wasn’t until noon, I decided to give Kendall’s another shot.

Perhaps because it was Friday, they were a bit busier than during my previous visit.  This time I opted for scrambled eggs and the buffalo patty.  Buffalo, if you have not experienced it, is about thirty-percent leaner than beef.  And although I have experienced it several times, I always forget that it seems a bit dry and uninteresting about half way through.  Well, the fresh fruit was a pleasant repeat of Wednesday’s experience.  Oh, and I opted for the pancakes since I knew they had no boysenberry preserves; no teeth sucking today!

I returned to the campground, fired up the GMC and made my way to the sanitary dump station.  Sorry to disappoint, but I have reduced this process to a science so you will read no horror stories about toxic spills from me.  I returned to the campsite, hooked up the Land Cruiser and away I went.

As advertised in day one, I opted for the shorter route and hauled my rig up the hair pin curves of Montezuma Grade (S-22).  Traffic was light, the weather was favorable, I rolled into the driveway about noon; no drama.

I am sure there are some morals buried somewhere in this experience.  But for now, thus endeth the saga of the Anza-Borrego 2014 adventure.