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.
