Bakersfield, Barstow, Yermo but no Cucamonga

I don't know what has come over Mr. T. After arriving at the RV park late last night he fired up the Minnie at 7:30 gerund-deleted AM. What is this? No morning coffee brought to me in bed? No checking of email? No casual lolling about and finally getting underway before check-out time at 11:00AM? At least he relented and grabbed me a Vente Latte before we headed down I-5. On the other hand, when the only soap I could find was an old hotel sample of Neutrogena soap that smelled like the nurse's office in grade school, Mr. T was the one who magically produced a tube of Crabree & Evelyn shower gel. What a guy!

Yes, the Congress-created dust bowl still lined both sides of the freeway. Yes, the smelly cattle feed lots still assault the senses. Nothing can make I-5 go by any faster and so we were grateful to listen to Rush Limbaugh and do the "country's goin' to the dawgs" comments. Somehow, it was fitting that we hit Bakersfield at High Noon when KNZR blares out the Star-Spangled Banner and Jaz McKay takes the mike. All seemed right again with the world.

The wildflowers were just beginning to come out in the Tehatchapi Mountains and as we passed into the long stretch of desert, everything was green with solid yellow wildflowers everywhere. It was stunning. I would post a picture but Mr. T was hell-bent on getting to Barstow and when we did stop there wasn't a flower in sight. However, there was this amazing pile of broken glass that was turning blue in the desert sun.

 

I'm very sentimental about Barstow.(Take that, Jay Leno!)  My grandparents came West in the early '20ies when my grandfather worked for the Santa Fe. I spent my first 7 years there--it's in Barstow that the desert imprinted on me. Too bad that now it's such a dump. So we pressed on to Yermo--also a place I lived in my childhood. (In case you think my childhood was deprived, let me assure you I also got to live in Daggett.)

 

Old tires are a desert staple--two examples of creative tire use discovered in the town of Old Boron off Highway 58.

So, here we are in Yermo--close to the old desert haunts that always draw us back. The saddest part is that the monastery has moved and so, for the first time in 10 years, we are on our own with no monks to regale us with desert stories or spiritual encouragement. The desert seems to be a place where dreams come to die.

But Barstow will outlast us all.