Yellowstone 2018-3

Showdown at Cricket Gulch

So here it is, finally, the day of departure.  It promises to be an unchallenging experience as there are relatively few miles to cover and I have made this drive many times. U.S. 395 begins in the City of Adelanto where it separates from the diamond grooved concrete of freeway I-15 and swings NNW (north-north-west) onto the rumbling macadam of U. S. 395.  It has been some years since I last negotiated this roadway and I am surprised at the residential and retail development pushing civilization ever northward into the frontier.

Finally, the exurbs are halted by the Mojave Desert. This part of the State is still heavily invested in mineral mining.  Although both sides of the road are littered with what appears to be abandoned mining equipment from an earlier period, you can bet there are intrepid prospectors who still tell the tale of the strike they almost had before the war (yeah, your guess is as good as mine) with a gleam in their eye.  And if you have a sharp eye you can see adits up on the hillsides with fresh tailings shading the earth a darker brown.  But miners are miners and since they tend toward the delusionary paranoid I pass through this valley at safe but steady speed.

Nearing the end of the mining district a sign invites the tourist/explorer to visit the authentic old-west mining town of Randsburg.  It is located a mere one-mile from the highway and for my money a must stop, if only to use the public restroom.  The town is generally deserted during the week but opens its doors on weekends and holidays.  There are a couple of bars (I’ve only seen them open on one occasion, Randsburg Days, which my traveling party made good use of) a general store with a lunch counter and a hotel (I’m not sure the hotel takes guests). If one inquires to the use of restroom facilities, thy will be politely if not a bit cool-ly, directed to the County Park mid town and the public conveniences therein. Go there first. Take care of business. Then buy de minimus something as a show of good will. If the residents ever give up their tenuous hold on the place, or die; it’s a fur piece to the next facilities, partner!

At this part of the trip, I always challenge myself to glimpse the earliest sign of the Sierra Nevada.  But as with every trip up here, the next thing I know is that the peaks are staring down at me from about fourteen thousand feet.  They are not as old as the Rockies.  They are not on average taller than the Rockies (although they do claim the highest peak in the Continental United States). But their sheer ruggedness is enough to make one cry for their mommy.  They serve as escort into the first town of the Sierra, Lone Pine.

It is that first 25 miles per hour sign that confirms for me that I am in a different era.  The buildings all seem to date from the first half of the twentieth century.  Driving this slowly gives one time to scrutinize their surroundings.  It brings to mind so many of the golden age films I love.  It looks much as I remember the Main Street Route 66 towns I’d been through with my parents when I was a tyke.  You have read of my affinity for older motor courts and motels.  I think they’re kitsch and just another connection with my childhood.  Although they may lack some of the more modern touches, as long as they are clean the primary mission is achieved.  How much time does one spend in the room anyway.

Tonight, I selected the Portal Inn near the south end of town.  After checking in and getting settled, I had some time before dark to explore. My plans included a drive to Whitney Portal, which is the trail head for Mount Whitney, the tallest mountain in the forty-eight contiguous states.  The road runs directly west from Lone Pine through the Alabama Hills (more on that later) and the first switchback up the side of the mountain becomes more intimidating as one approaches.  The road is steep and narrow but in good repair.  I didn’t count switchbacks as my concentration was better served by keeping my vehicle on the climbing, curving roadway.  Upon arrival I discovered the portal is no more than a parking lot accompanied by a small store vending memorabilia for those who wish to brag about their successful conquest.  As it is unlikely that I will ever make that ascent, I spent no time perusing the merchandise.  Yes, the trip down is a bit hairier, it always is.

Upon my return to Lone Pine, I opted to take a walk along the main street.  As I neared my motel, I realized I was somewhat puckish and turned to the coffee shop across the street.  Suddenly I realized nothing would sate my hunger but a cup of joe and a piece of pie. Their only offering for fruit pie this evening was strawberry-rhubarb.  Not quite boysenberry, but it would have to do.

When I returned to my motel room, I engaged in that activity all older men perform in the presence of plumbing, I peed.  Something on the floor of the bathroom moved into my peripheral vision. A cricket!

Crickets are the most insidious of beasts.  Not because the offer any real physical threat but because they employ psychological warfare.  As part of their efforts to attract a mate, crickets chirp. And it is an annoying chirp.  But here’s the root of the real torture.  As the mighty human predator seeks the location of the annoying little creep, the cricket senses the movement and stops chirping.  After a few moments the human gives up the hunt and resumes his activity.  Just when concentration or sleep is about to settle, the damn cricket chirps again.  And this drama will repeat itself until the cricket is successful in finding a paramour while the hunters nerves are frayed to the breaking point.  I was determined to end this combat swiftly.  After all, I had him in my sights.

  I picked up an ad hoc weapon, a small, round waste bucket.  The cricket retreated in the corner where the bath tub joined to the wall.  A quick strike, the cricket was still.  Wait, no he moved.  Another blow.  Then he stirred again. The bucket came crashing down on the cricket three, four, five times.  But each blow only served to temporarily stun the invincible creature.  The curvature of my weapon prevented full contact.  You can’t kill a cricket with a round bucket in a square hole! I retreated to get reinforcements but by the time I returned with the New Balance platoon, the enemy had disappeared.  But there was not a single peep; I figured he was incapacitated or had died of his wounds.