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lwood27 April:
Note: All pictures in this travelogue can be seen in much larger form over on my website. Click to enlarge, as usual...
Buttonwillow is one of those places that only exists to be on the way to somewhere else. I'm writing this entry from another one: Holbrook, Arizona. It's a whole town that feels like an airport or a bus station: few people live here, many pass in, light briefly, and then through, through to madly dash north along I-5 to San Francisco, south, up, and over the Grapevine, or, even to Bakersfield.
Motels, too, are transient spaces: a transient space in a transients' town. It was already getting unpleasantly hot by the time we'd repacked the car, found breakfast at the adjacent Carl's Junior, and started the climb up the Grapevine.
The Grapevine is the exact opposite of Buttonwillow: it's a range of mountains, after all. Mountains remain, remain longer than you or I who look at them, were there before the first Australopithecine thought coming out of the trees was a smart career move, will be there after the last H. sapiens decides that whatever's-next is an equally brilliant decision.
Of course, with a wide enough perspective, even the mountains are transient, but at that range, Buttonwillow has dwindled to less than a mote in Time's eye. From the human perspective, mountains are permanent, staying where the gods and plate tectonics put them.
It's with this perspective that we approached the pass, at least in one sense.
In another, equally real sense, we were approaching these mountains from a Westrian perspective, from that of the end of the first third of the current book-in-progress, The Golden Hills of Westria. From that perspective, start thus:
Does that help? In this car, on this trip, until we're in Albuquerque, imagine these worlds laid on top of one another, like transparencies on an overhead projector.
Just over the main ridge of the Grapevine, in pre-Cataclysm days, is the small town of Lebec. In Golden Hills, a battle will be fought here: Elaya, unthinkably, has asked Westria for aid, and Westria will make her answer here: the Elayan prince's last scattering of troops, the army that has, as unthinkably as the idea that Elaya would beg aid form Westria, marched across Aztlan and the Barren Lands, and, well, the Westrians.
It's in the first half of the book, so it's not spoiling much to tell you the Westrians get creamed.
We stopped in Lebec long enough to buy a couple gallons of water to make sure we cross the Mojave safely, and then flitted about the area to take several pictures. This one we took while parked in front of the Lebec Post Office: if you look in the center-back of the picture, you'll see a dusting of orange on the far hills; it's the height of the California poppy season.
Across the freeway from Lebec is the main office and entrance to Tejon Ranch, which owns the land we're interested in. Unfortunately, their office wasn't open. Instead, we have several shots of the lake taken from the ranch's fence. When we stopped in the General Store, they told us that the lake isn't dammed. This is important; one of the more significant things about the Cataclysm is that all the dams give way. However, what is interesting is that the lake had been there until an earthquake some time ago, then it went away for awhile, and then it came back aftera recent earthquake. So, the lake can be any size Diana likes, including non-existent. The battle will be fought on this plain, by the lake, so we took several more pictures than what I'm showing you here.
The folks at the General Store suggested we drive by the old fort, Fort Tejon. The Westrians will probably camp here; it's a little north of the lake, by a river. The fort was manned during and after the Civil War and, as a State Historical Park, is supplied with facilities that re-enact that period. Civil War re-enactors stage a mock battle here every year, but the posters note that no battles of the actual Civil War were fought here, or anywhere in California. The museum had some interesting facts on the local native population as well as the expected mid-19th century uniforms -- which looked distinctly uncomfortable.
After this, we slipped another exit or two south along I-5 to CA 138 just south of Gorman. This road slides nearly due east-west through Antelope Valley. The land grew progressively more arid as we bounded through the valley, turning north on CA 14 to Mojave, then east on CA 58. After cresting a range of hills, Antelope Valley gave way to the Mojave Desert, and Elaya's tenuous hold gave way to the Barren Lands, a vast swath of land that comprises what most Constant Readers would recognize as Nevada.
CA 14 and 58 essentially form the western and northern borders of Edwards Air Force Base, where numerous Planes That Almost Exist are tested. It's a huge dry lake bed, far from any real population centers. The Space Shuttle has landed here many times in the past.
I called![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
countgeiger specifically to taunt him that we were, essentially, driving around the place where the Right Stuff was refined out of a handful of test pilots. He laughed, and told me to listen for sonic booms.
The Mojave is studded with Joshua trees, something I'd previously only seen on the cover of a U2 album. Diana promises we'll get some good pictures of these on our way back; right now our goal was Barstow. (Update: She never did... grrr...)
I didn't call upcheshire_eddie and taunt him that we were more or less in Giant Man-Eating Bat Country (Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas reference), although I was, indeed, sorely tempted.
In Barstow, we found one of the last leftover bits of Route 66. We nearly stopped for lunch at a place called The Mad Chick, but it was, unfortunately, closed, and it was too damn hot to take pictures of each other standing under the sign, so you'll just have to imagine it.
Instead, I selected a random Mexican restaurant, in keeping with our usual tendency to find the most appropriate regional cuisine (this is a theme, you'll see more of it as we go). As I chased my taco salad around my plate, there was a THUMP, as though there had just been a short, sharp earthquake, or perhaps someone had closed the kitchen door with enough emphasis to shake the restaurant, but that seemed unlikely given the size of the place. A few minutes later, it was followed by another, and that time I heard the windows shake.
"Excuse me," I asked the waiter, "what was that noise?"
He blinked, confused, until recognition dawned. "Oh! That! That was a sonic boom -- I'm sorry, we get them so often, everyone here just sort of tunes them out. We're just a few miles from Edwards, you know."
After that, I noticed one more in the restaurant, and at least one more while we were plinking along the remains of 66 and trying to find I-40. It was far, far easier to find I-15, especially if we wanted Las Vegas.
As a side note, the Way of the Plot will not be getting its kicks on Route 66; US-66 (and its successor, I-40), are where they are because of the old railroad right-of-way, because Interstates and railroads have a similar need to be flat. The older routes, though, will be of more use to us in determing the Way of the Plot; they will follow gentle slopes and carry our heroes from one well, lake, or spring to another, which will be essential in crossing the deserts to come.
Once on I-40, the headlong dash across the Mojave continued. We stopped at a rest area a half-hour east of Barstow, taking pictures of landscape and an unfamiliar vaguely corvid-shaped bird that later turned out to be a great-tailed grackle.
Soon after leaving the rest area, we came into Needles. This is a town that probably only means anything if you've driven through it, or if you're a fan of Peanuts cartoons and know about Snoopy's brother Spike. However, it's important in another way: Needles is where I-40 (and the former US 66) cross the Colorado River, forming a part of the Arizona/California border.
Note: All pictures in this travelogue can be seen in much larger form over on my website. Click to enlarge, as usual...
Buttonwillow is one of those places that only exists to be on the way to somewhere else. I'm writing this entry from another one: Holbrook, Arizona. It's a whole town that feels like an airport or a bus station: few people live here, many pass in, light briefly, and then through, through to madly dash north along I-5 to San Francisco, south, up, and over the Grapevine, or, even to Bakersfield.
Motels, too, are transient spaces: a transient space in a transients' town. It was already getting unpleasantly hot by the time we'd repacked the car, found breakfast at the adjacent Carl's Junior, and started the climb up the Grapevine.
The Grapevine is the exact opposite of Buttonwillow: it's a range of mountains, after all. Mountains remain, remain longer than you or I who look at them, were there before the first Australopithecine thought coming out of the trees was a smart career move, will be there after the last H. sapiens decides that whatever's-next is an equally brilliant decision.
Of course, with a wide enough perspective, even the mountains are transient, but at that range, Buttonwillow has dwindled to less than a mote in Time's eye. From the human perspective, mountains are permanent, staying where the gods and plate tectonics put them.
It's with this perspective that we approached the pass, at least in one sense.
In another, equally real sense, we were approaching these mountains from a Westrian perspective, from that of the end of the first third of the current book-in-progress, The Golden Hills of Westria. From that perspective, start thus:
The Great Valley is not traversed in hours, but rather days. Days watching flat plains and blue sky frame slow-rolling hills. It has been this way for many days since leaving Laurelynn, capital of Westria in the heart of the Royal Domain, so many days that one might think it would never end. At least, one might if one had never set sail on the Sea of Grass, but there are few who ever would have. A Master Bard might, but who else would be crazy enough?
But the Valley ends, eventually, as all things must. The ground, which was semi-solid silt near Laurelynn, gave way to brackish marsh and dried out. Things were green for awhile after that, passing the Red Mountain and enjoying the abundant hospitality of Heron Hall, but even that eventually faded, and for the past couple days, ever since the valley's end wavered hazily into sight, the suspicion was growing that this was not, in fact, Westria at all... someone has played a cruel joke and switched it with the Barren Lands when you weren't looking...
A caravan track winds into these hills, one of the three well-marked ways from Westria to Elaya. The king's writ is stretched thin, here, beginning where the Valley does. Once the wagons start winding up the switchbacks, you officially enter the borderlands.
Borderlands are curious things. When the shared border is between two mutually amicable powers, such as it is at Westria's northern border where the province of the Corona gives way to Normontaine, those vast evergreen forests pay equal heed to either the King in Laurelynn or the Queen in Antir; it matters little.
Westria and Elaya, in the best of times, are quiet rivals. In less-than-quiet times... they like to make tally-marks on the walls in Santibar about how many times that particular town has changed hands. The border, then, is more distinct, less easy-going, although exactly where it is is a matter of debate in the distant capitals of Westria and Elaya].
Does that help? In this car, on this trip, until we're in Albuquerque, imagine these worlds laid on top of one another, like transparencies on an overhead projector.
Just over the main ridge of the Grapevine, in pre-Cataclysm days, is the small town of Lebec. In Golden Hills, a battle will be fought here: Elaya, unthinkably, has asked Westria for aid, and Westria will make her answer here: the Elayan prince's last scattering of troops, the army that has, as unthinkably as the idea that Elaya would beg aid form Westria, marched across Aztlan and the Barren Lands, and, well, the Westrians.
It's in the first half of the book, so it's not spoiling much to tell you the Westrians get creamed.
We stopped in Lebec long enough to buy a couple gallons of water to make sure we cross the Mojave safely, and then flitted about the area to take several pictures. This one we took while parked in front of the Lebec Post Office: if you look in the center-back of the picture, you'll see a dusting of orange on the far hills; it's the height of the California poppy season.
Across the freeway from Lebec is the main office and entrance to Tejon Ranch, which owns the land we're interested in. Unfortunately, their office wasn't open. Instead, we have several shots of the lake taken from the ranch's fence. When we stopped in the General Store, they told us that the lake isn't dammed. This is important; one of the more significant things about the Cataclysm is that all the dams give way. However, what is interesting is that the lake had been there until an earthquake some time ago, then it went away for awhile, and then it came back aftera recent earthquake. So, the lake can be any size Diana likes, including non-existent. The battle will be fought on this plain, by the lake, so we took several more pictures than what I'm showing you here.
The folks at the General Store suggested we drive by the old fort, Fort Tejon. The Westrians will probably camp here; it's a little north of the lake, by a river. The fort was manned during and after the Civil War and, as a State Historical Park, is supplied with facilities that re-enact that period. Civil War re-enactors stage a mock battle here every year, but the posters note that no battles of the actual Civil War were fought here, or anywhere in California. The museum had some interesting facts on the local native population as well as the expected mid-19th century uniforms -- which looked distinctly uncomfortable.
After this, we slipped another exit or two south along I-5 to CA 138 just south of Gorman. This road slides nearly due east-west through Antelope Valley. The land grew progressively more arid as we bounded through the valley, turning north on CA 14 to Mojave, then east on CA 58. After cresting a range of hills, Antelope Valley gave way to the Mojave Desert, and Elaya's tenuous hold gave way to the Barren Lands, a vast swath of land that comprises what most Constant Readers would recognize as Nevada.
CA 14 and 58 essentially form the western and northern borders of Edwards Air Force Base, where numerous Planes That Almost Exist are tested. It's a huge dry lake bed, far from any real population centers. The Space Shuttle has landed here many times in the past.
I called
countgeiger specifically to taunt him that we were, essentially, driving around the place where the Right Stuff was refined out of a handful of test pilots. He laughed, and told me to listen for sonic booms.The Mojave is studded with Joshua trees, something I'd previously only seen on the cover of a U2 album. Diana promises we'll get some good pictures of these on our way back; right now our goal was Barstow. (Update: She never did... grrr...)
I didn't call up
cheshire_eddie and taunt him that we were more or less in Giant Man-Eating Bat Country (Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas reference), although I was, indeed, sorely tempted.In Barstow, we found one of the last leftover bits of Route 66. We nearly stopped for lunch at a place called The Mad Chick, but it was, unfortunately, closed, and it was too damn hot to take pictures of each other standing under the sign, so you'll just have to imagine it.
Instead, I selected a random Mexican restaurant, in keeping with our usual tendency to find the most appropriate regional cuisine (this is a theme, you'll see more of it as we go). As I chased my taco salad around my plate, there was a THUMP, as though there had just been a short, sharp earthquake, or perhaps someone had closed the kitchen door with enough emphasis to shake the restaurant, but that seemed unlikely given the size of the place. A few minutes later, it was followed by another, and that time I heard the windows shake.
"Excuse me," I asked the waiter, "what was that noise?"
He blinked, confused, until recognition dawned. "Oh! That! That was a sonic boom -- I'm sorry, we get them so often, everyone here just sort of tunes them out. We're just a few miles from Edwards, you know."
After that, I noticed one more in the restaurant, and at least one more while we were plinking along the remains of 66 and trying to find I-40. It was far, far easier to find I-15, especially if we wanted Las Vegas.
Except, of course, there couldn't possibly be a town there; there wasn't any water! Well, the tales did say that once there had been a city there, a jewel even prouder than Arena far to the north, but when the dams had given way... there was nothing there, now, but ghosts, where once the most improbable dreams had been spun.
As a side note, the Way of the Plot will not be getting its kicks on Route 66; US-66 (and its successor, I-40), are where they are because of the old railroad right-of-way, because Interstates and railroads have a similar need to be flat. The older routes, though, will be of more use to us in determing the Way of the Plot; they will follow gentle slopes and carry our heroes from one well, lake, or spring to another, which will be essential in crossing the deserts to come.
Once on I-40, the headlong dash across the Mojave continued. We stopped at a rest area a half-hour east of Barstow, taking pictures of landscape and an unfamiliar vaguely corvid-shaped bird that later turned out to be a great-tailed grackle.
Soon after leaving the rest area, we came into Needles. This is a town that probably only means anything if you've driven through it, or if you're a fan of Peanuts cartoons and know about Snoopy's brother Spike. However, it's important in another way: Needles is where I-40 (and the former US 66) cross the Colorado River, forming a part of the Arizona/California border.
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27 April:
<cite>Note:</cite> All pictures in this travelogue can be seen in much larger form <a href="http://www.snugharbor.com/gallery">over on my website</a>. Click to enlarge, as usual...
<lj-cut text="Buttonwillow is one of those places that only exists to be on the way to somewhere else.">Buttonwillow is one of those places that only exists to be on the way to somewhere else. I'm writing this entry from another one: Holbrook, Arizona. It's a whole town that feels like an airport or a bus station: few people live here, many pass in, light briefly, and then through, through to madly dash north along I-5 to San Francisco, south, up, and over the Grapevine, or, even to Bakersfield.
Motels, too, are transient spaces: a transient space in a transients' town. It was already getting unpleasantly hot by the time we'd repacked the car, found breakfast at the adjacent Carl's Junior, and started the climb up the Grapevine.
The Grapevine is the exact opposite of Buttonwillow: it's a range of mountains, after all. Mountains remain, remain longer than you or I who look at them, were there before the first Australopithecine thought coming out of the trees was a smart career move, will be there after the last H. sapiens decides that whatever's-next is an equally brilliant decision.
Of course, with a wide enough perspective, even the mountains are transient, but at that range, Buttonwillow has dwindled to less than a mote in Time's eye. From the human perspective, mountains are permanent, staying where the gods and plate tectonics put them.
It's with this perspective that we approached the pass, at least in one sense.
In another, equally real sense, we were approaching these mountains from a Westrian perspective, from that of the end of the first third of the current book-in-progress, <cite>The Golden Hills of Westria</cite>. From that perspective, start thus:
<blockquote><cite>The Great Valley is not traversed in hours, but rather days. Days watching flat plains and blue sky frame slow-rolling hills. It has been this way for many days since leaving Laurelynn, capital of Westria in the heart of the Royal Domain, so many days that one might think it would never end. At least, one might if one had never set sail on the Sea of Grass, but there are few who ever would have. A Master Bard might, but who else would be crazy enough?
But the Valley ends, eventually, as all things must. The ground, which was semi-solid silt near Laurelynn, gave way to brackish marsh and dried out. Things were green for awhile after that, passing the Red Mountain and enjoying the abundant hospitality of Heron Hall, but even that eventually faded, and for the past couple days, ever since the valley's end wavered hazily into sight, the suspicion was growing that this was not, in fact, Westria at all... someone has played a cruel joke and switched it with the Barren Lands when you weren't looking...
A caravan track winds into these hills, one of the three well-marked ways from Westria to Elaya. The king's writ is stretched thin, here, beginning where the Valley does. Once the wagons start winding up the switchbacks, you officially enter the borderlands.
Borderlands are curious things. When the shared border is between two mutually amicable powers, such as it is at Westria's northern border where the province of the Corona gives way to Normontaine, those vast evergreen forests pay equal heed to either the King in Laurelynn or the Queen in Antir; it matters little.
Westria and Elaya, in the best of times, are quiet rivals. In less-than-quiet times... they like to make tally-marks on the walls in Santibar about how many times that particular town has changed hands. The border, then, is more distinct, less easy-going, although exactly where it is is a matter of debate in the distant capitals of Westria and Elaya].</cite></blockquote>
Does that help? In this car, on this trip, until we're in Albuquerque, imagine these worlds laid on top of one another, like transparencies on an overhead projector.
Just over the main ridge of the Grapevine, in pre-Cataclysm days, is the small town of Lebec. In <cite>Golden Hills</cite>, a battle will be fought here: Elaya, unthinkably, has asked Westria for aid, and Westria will make her answer here: the Elayan prince's last scattering of troops, the army that has, as unthinkably as the idea that Elaya would beg aid form Westria, marched across Aztlan and the Barren Lands, and, well, the Westrians.
It's in the first half of the book, so it's not spoiling much to tell you the Westrians get creamed.
We stopped in Lebec long enough to buy a couple gallons of water to make sure we cross the Mojave safely, and then flitted about the area to take several pictures. This one we took while parked in front of the Lebec Post Office: if you look in the center-back of the picture, you'll see a dusting of orange on the far hills; it's the height of the California poppy season.
<a href="http://www.snugharbor.com/gallery/ravenroad/P0001235?full=1"><img src="http://www.snugharbor.com/albums/ravenroad/P0001235.sized.jpg" alt="Poppy-Covered Hill Near Lebec" height=640 width=427></a>
Across the freeway from Lebec is the main office and entrance to Tejon Ranch, which owns the land we're interested in. Unfortunately, their office wasn't open. Instead, we have several shots of the lake taken from the ranch's fence. When we stopped in the General Store, they told us that the lake isn't dammed. This is important; one of the more significant things about the Cataclysm is that all the dams give way. However, what <cite>is</cite> interesting is that the lake <cite>had</cite> been there until an earthquake some time ago, then it went away for awhile, and then it came back aftera recent earthquake. So, the lake can be any size Diana likes, including non-existent. The battle will be fought on this plain, by the lake, so we took several more pictures than what I'm showing you here.
<a href="http://www.snugharbor.com/albums/ravenroad/P0001242?full=1"><img src="http://www.snugharbor.com/albums/ravenroad/P0001242.sized.jpg" alt="Castac Lake" height=427 width=640"></a>
The folks at the General Store suggested we drive by the old fort, Fort Tejon. The Westrians will probably camp here; it's a little north of the lake, by a river. The fort was manned during and after the Civil War and, as a State Historical Park, is supplied with facilities that re-enact that period. Civil War re-enactors stage a mock battle here every year, but the posters note that no battles of the actual Civil War were fought here, or anywhere in California. The museum had some interesting facts on the local native population as well as the expected mid-19th century uniforms -- which looked distinctly uncomfortable.
<a href="http://www.snugharbor.com/albums/ravenroad/P0001246?full=1"><img src="http://www.snugharbor.com/albums/ravenroad/P0001246.sized.jpg" alt="Fort Tejon State Historic Park" height=427 width=640></a>
After this, we slipped another exit or two south along I-5 to CA 138 just south of Gorman. This road slides nearly due east-west through Antelope Valley. The land grew progressively more arid as we bounded through the valley, turning north on CA 14 to Mojave, then east on CA 58. After cresting a range of hills, Antelope Valley gave way to the Mojave Desert, and Elaya's tenuous hold gave way to the Barren Lands, a vast swath of land that comprises what most Constant Readers would recognize as Nevada.
CA 14 and 58 essentially form the western and northern borders of Edwards Air Force Base, where numerous Planes That Almost Exist are tested. It's a huge dry lake bed, far from any real population centers. The Space Shuttle has landed here many times in the past.
I called <lj site="livejournal.com" user="countgeiger"> specifically to taunt him that we were, essentially, driving around the place where the Right Stuff was refined out of a handful of test pilots. He laughed, and told me to listen for sonic booms.
The Mojave is studded with Joshua trees, something I'd previously only seen on the cover of a U2 album. Diana promises we'll get some good pictures of these on our way back; right now our goal was Barstow. (Update: She never did... grrr...)
I <em>didn't</em> call up <lj site="livejournal.com" user="cheshire_eddie"> and taunt him that we were more or less in Giant Man-Eating Bat Country (<cite>Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas</cite> reference), although I was, indeed, sorely tempted.
In Barstow, we found one of the last leftover bits of Route 66. We nearly stopped for lunch at a place called The Mad Chick, but it was, unfortunately, closed, and it was too damn hot to take pictures of each other standing under the sign, so you'll just have to imagine it.
Instead, I selected a random Mexican restaurant, in keeping with our usual tendency to find the most appropriate regional cuisine (this is a theme, you'll see more of it as we go). As I chased my taco salad around my plate, there was a <em><strong>THUMP</strong></em>, as though there had just been a short, sharp earthquake, or perhaps someone had closed the kitchen door with enough emphasis to shake the restaurant, but that seemed unlikely given the size of the place. A few minutes later, it was followed by another, and that time I heard the windows shake.
"Excuse me," I asked the waiter, "what was that noise?"
He blinked, confused, until recognition dawned. "Oh! That! That was a sonic boom -- I'm sorry, we get them so often, everyone here just sort of tunes them out. We're just a few miles from Edwards, you know."
After that, I noticed one more in the restaurant, and at least one more while we were plinking along the remains of 66 and trying to find I-40. It was far, far easier to find I-15, especially if we wanted Las Vegas.
<blockquote><cite>Except, of course, there couldn't possibly be a town there; there wasn't any water! Well, the tales did say that once there had been a city there, a jewel even prouder than Arena far to the north, but when the dams had given way... there was nothing there, now, but ghosts, where once the most improbable dreams had been spun.</cite></blockquote>
As a side note, the Way of the Plot will not be getting its kicks on Route 66; US-66 (and its successor, I-40), are where they are because of the old railroad right-of-way, because Interstates and railroads have a similar need to be flat. The older routes, though, will be of more use to us in determing the Way of the Plot; they will follow gentle slopes and carry our heroes from one well, lake, or spring to another, which will be essential in crossing the deserts to come.
Once on I-40, the headlong dash across the Mojave continued. We stopped at a rest area a half-hour east of Barstow, taking pictures of landscape and an unfamiliar vaguely corvid-shaped bird that later turned out to be a great-tailed grackle.
<a href="http://www.snugharbor.com/albums/ravenroad/P0001247?full=1"><img src="http://www.snugharbor.com/albums/ravenroad/P0001247.sized.jpg" alt="Great-Tailed Grackle at Highway Rest Area" height=427 width=640></a>
Soon after leaving the rest area, we came into Needles. This is a town that probably only means anything if you've driven through it, or if you're a fan of <cite>Peanuts</cite> cartoons and know about Snoopy's brother Spike. However, it's important in another way: Needles is where I-40 (and the former US 66) cross the Colorado River, forming a part of the Arizona/California border.
<a href="http://www.snugharbor.com/albums/ravenroad/P0001256?full=1"><img src="http://www.snugharbor.com/albums/ravenroad/P0001256.sized.jpg" alt=The Colorado River, near Needles, CA" width=640 height=427></a>
We stopped at a KOA Campground and picked up one of their nationwide directories, as we wanted to pitch the tent tonight.
Night fell soon after we crossed the river and entered Arizona. I'd never been here before. Actually, every region we passed through was new to me in one way or another, but here was a whole new state, with weird rules about Daylight Saving Time: the state doesn't do it. But, Daylight Saving Time is observed on the Navajo Reservation, where we spent most of Day Three.
<blockquote><cite>Crossing the river delivers you from the Barren Lands and into Aztlan, a vast and sundrenched land, ancestral dwelling place for a confederation of tribes. Oh, sure, there's Navajo, Hopi, Zuni, Acoma... but the Chicano and Anglo tribes also have their say in things. Between them, they select a chief of chiefs, first among equals, but in everyday affairs each tribe is a nation unto itself... it is a land whose powers are Holy People, whether you call them Yebichei or Kachina, where Old Man Coyote yips at the moon and the eerie flute of Kokopelli whistles a reply. The sun is hot, the food is hotter, and it'll take more than luck to find the wells and watercourses here.</cite></blockquote>
It's 167 miles from Needles to Williams, fleeing the sun into the deepening dusk, chasing and catching the night in my radiator grille. As the sun sank behind us, we found several new sorts of flowers, most noticeably the graceful red-tipped arch of ocotillo. Too harried to take pictures, we kept on, and on, and on. We did, however, start supplying soundtracks for the landscapes, starting here with <a href="http://www.canyonrecords.com/cr7020.htm"><cite>Inside Monument Valley</cite></a>, a nifty little duet album between a pair of flautists, one modern and one Native American, playing in Monument Valley, Utah, and accompanied by local birds (including ravens).
Williams, Arizona, rather like Holbrook, isn't important so much because of where it is. Williams is another transient place for transient people because it's only fifty-seven miles south of our Surprise Added Destination...
Oh, but that's for tomorrow. Tonight, then, leave Our Heroes under a waxing moon in a blue and gray Winnebago tent where the little battery-powered lamp has just winked out. They have discovered Late Registration means slipping a twenty in an envelope and writing where you came from and where you're camping on the outside, and have set things up in a great hurry to beat the temperature, which in this biome falls with a nigh-audible <em>thud</em>. In the distance, a farm dog barks in consternation because the coyotes are <em>right there</em>, they're <em>outside the fence</em>, and c'mon <em>lemme at 'em</em>! The coyotes yip and howl back in laughter, inviting dear old Fido to come right out, yes, please do, and there'll be fine running under the moon until they catch Fido, at which point there will be rather pointed discussions on the topic of lunch. Fido, should he break loose, will be buying...
Night, y'all.
-- Lorrie, in Holbrook, Arizona, principal entry finished 23:52 MST, 4 May 2004.
<cite>Note:</cite> All pictures in this travelogue can be seen in much larger form <a href="http://www.snugharbor.com/gallery">over on my website</a>. Click to enlarge, as usual...
<lj-cut text="Buttonwillow is one of those places that only exists to be on the way to somewhere else.">Buttonwillow is one of those places that only exists to be on the way to somewhere else. I'm writing this entry from another one: Holbrook, Arizona. It's a whole town that feels like an airport or a bus station: few people live here, many pass in, light briefly, and then through, through to madly dash north along I-5 to San Francisco, south, up, and over the Grapevine, or, even to Bakersfield.
Motels, too, are transient spaces: a transient space in a transients' town. It was already getting unpleasantly hot by the time we'd repacked the car, found breakfast at the adjacent Carl's Junior, and started the climb up the Grapevine.
The Grapevine is the exact opposite of Buttonwillow: it's a range of mountains, after all. Mountains remain, remain longer than you or I who look at them, were there before the first Australopithecine thought coming out of the trees was a smart career move, will be there after the last H. sapiens decides that whatever's-next is an equally brilliant decision.
Of course, with a wide enough perspective, even the mountains are transient, but at that range, Buttonwillow has dwindled to less than a mote in Time's eye. From the human perspective, mountains are permanent, staying where the gods and plate tectonics put them.
It's with this perspective that we approached the pass, at least in one sense.
In another, equally real sense, we were approaching these mountains from a Westrian perspective, from that of the end of the first third of the current book-in-progress, <cite>The Golden Hills of Westria</cite>. From that perspective, start thus:
<blockquote><cite>The Great Valley is not traversed in hours, but rather days. Days watching flat plains and blue sky frame slow-rolling hills. It has been this way for many days since leaving Laurelynn, capital of Westria in the heart of the Royal Domain, so many days that one might think it would never end. At least, one might if one had never set sail on the Sea of Grass, but there are few who ever would have. A Master Bard might, but who else would be crazy enough?
But the Valley ends, eventually, as all things must. The ground, which was semi-solid silt near Laurelynn, gave way to brackish marsh and dried out. Things were green for awhile after that, passing the Red Mountain and enjoying the abundant hospitality of Heron Hall, but even that eventually faded, and for the past couple days, ever since the valley's end wavered hazily into sight, the suspicion was growing that this was not, in fact, Westria at all... someone has played a cruel joke and switched it with the Barren Lands when you weren't looking...
A caravan track winds into these hills, one of the three well-marked ways from Westria to Elaya. The king's writ is stretched thin, here, beginning where the Valley does. Once the wagons start winding up the switchbacks, you officially enter the borderlands.
Borderlands are curious things. When the shared border is between two mutually amicable powers, such as it is at Westria's northern border where the province of the Corona gives way to Normontaine, those vast evergreen forests pay equal heed to either the King in Laurelynn or the Queen in Antir; it matters little.
Westria and Elaya, in the best of times, are quiet rivals. In less-than-quiet times... they like to make tally-marks on the walls in Santibar about how many times that particular town has changed hands. The border, then, is more distinct, less easy-going, although exactly where it is is a matter of debate in the distant capitals of Westria and Elaya].</cite></blockquote>
Does that help? In this car, on this trip, until we're in Albuquerque, imagine these worlds laid on top of one another, like transparencies on an overhead projector.
Just over the main ridge of the Grapevine, in pre-Cataclysm days, is the small town of Lebec. In <cite>Golden Hills</cite>, a battle will be fought here: Elaya, unthinkably, has asked Westria for aid, and Westria will make her answer here: the Elayan prince's last scattering of troops, the army that has, as unthinkably as the idea that Elaya would beg aid form Westria, marched across Aztlan and the Barren Lands, and, well, the Westrians.
It's in the first half of the book, so it's not spoiling much to tell you the Westrians get creamed.
We stopped in Lebec long enough to buy a couple gallons of water to make sure we cross the Mojave safely, and then flitted about the area to take several pictures. This one we took while parked in front of the Lebec Post Office: if you look in the center-back of the picture, you'll see a dusting of orange on the far hills; it's the height of the California poppy season.
<a href="http://www.snugharbor.com/gallery/ravenroad/P0001235?full=1"><img src="http://www.snugharbor.com/albums/ravenroad/P0001235.sized.jpg" alt="Poppy-Covered Hill Near Lebec" height=640 width=427></a>
Across the freeway from Lebec is the main office and entrance to Tejon Ranch, which owns the land we're interested in. Unfortunately, their office wasn't open. Instead, we have several shots of the lake taken from the ranch's fence. When we stopped in the General Store, they told us that the lake isn't dammed. This is important; one of the more significant things about the Cataclysm is that all the dams give way. However, what <cite>is</cite> interesting is that the lake <cite>had</cite> been there until an earthquake some time ago, then it went away for awhile, and then it came back aftera recent earthquake. So, the lake can be any size Diana likes, including non-existent. The battle will be fought on this plain, by the lake, so we took several more pictures than what I'm showing you here.
<a href="http://www.snugharbor.com/albums/ravenroad/P0001242?full=1"><img src="http://www.snugharbor.com/albums/ravenroad/P0001242.sized.jpg" alt="Castac Lake" height=427 width=640"></a>
The folks at the General Store suggested we drive by the old fort, Fort Tejon. The Westrians will probably camp here; it's a little north of the lake, by a river. The fort was manned during and after the Civil War and, as a State Historical Park, is supplied with facilities that re-enact that period. Civil War re-enactors stage a mock battle here every year, but the posters note that no battles of the actual Civil War were fought here, or anywhere in California. The museum had some interesting facts on the local native population as well as the expected mid-19th century uniforms -- which looked distinctly uncomfortable.
<a href="http://www.snugharbor.com/albums/ravenroad/P0001246?full=1"><img src="http://www.snugharbor.com/albums/ravenroad/P0001246.sized.jpg" alt="Fort Tejon State Historic Park" height=427 width=640></a>
After this, we slipped another exit or two south along I-5 to CA 138 just south of Gorman. This road slides nearly due east-west through Antelope Valley. The land grew progressively more arid as we bounded through the valley, turning north on CA 14 to Mojave, then east on CA 58. After cresting a range of hills, Antelope Valley gave way to the Mojave Desert, and Elaya's tenuous hold gave way to the Barren Lands, a vast swath of land that comprises what most Constant Readers would recognize as Nevada.
CA 14 and 58 essentially form the western and northern borders of Edwards Air Force Base, where numerous Planes That Almost Exist are tested. It's a huge dry lake bed, far from any real population centers. The Space Shuttle has landed here many times in the past.
I called <lj site="livejournal.com" user="countgeiger"> specifically to taunt him that we were, essentially, driving around the place where the Right Stuff was refined out of a handful of test pilots. He laughed, and told me to listen for sonic booms.
The Mojave is studded with Joshua trees, something I'd previously only seen on the cover of a U2 album. Diana promises we'll get some good pictures of these on our way back; right now our goal was Barstow. (Update: She never did... grrr...)
I <em>didn't</em> call up <lj site="livejournal.com" user="cheshire_eddie"> and taunt him that we were more or less in Giant Man-Eating Bat Country (<cite>Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas</cite> reference), although I was, indeed, sorely tempted.
In Barstow, we found one of the last leftover bits of Route 66. We nearly stopped for lunch at a place called The Mad Chick, but it was, unfortunately, closed, and it was too damn hot to take pictures of each other standing under the sign, so you'll just have to imagine it.
Instead, I selected a random Mexican restaurant, in keeping with our usual tendency to find the most appropriate regional cuisine (this is a theme, you'll see more of it as we go). As I chased my taco salad around my plate, there was a <em><strong>THUMP</strong></em>, as though there had just been a short, sharp earthquake, or perhaps someone had closed the kitchen door with enough emphasis to shake the restaurant, but that seemed unlikely given the size of the place. A few minutes later, it was followed by another, and that time I heard the windows shake.
"Excuse me," I asked the waiter, "what was that noise?"
He blinked, confused, until recognition dawned. "Oh! That! That was a sonic boom -- I'm sorry, we get them so often, everyone here just sort of tunes them out. We're just a few miles from Edwards, you know."
After that, I noticed one more in the restaurant, and at least one more while we were plinking along the remains of 66 and trying to find I-40. It was far, far easier to find I-15, especially if we wanted Las Vegas.
<blockquote><cite>Except, of course, there couldn't possibly be a town there; there wasn't any water! Well, the tales did say that once there had been a city there, a jewel even prouder than Arena far to the north, but when the dams had given way... there was nothing there, now, but ghosts, where once the most improbable dreams had been spun.</cite></blockquote>
As a side note, the Way of the Plot will not be getting its kicks on Route 66; US-66 (and its successor, I-40), are where they are because of the old railroad right-of-way, because Interstates and railroads have a similar need to be flat. The older routes, though, will be of more use to us in determing the Way of the Plot; they will follow gentle slopes and carry our heroes from one well, lake, or spring to another, which will be essential in crossing the deserts to come.
Once on I-40, the headlong dash across the Mojave continued. We stopped at a rest area a half-hour east of Barstow, taking pictures of landscape and an unfamiliar vaguely corvid-shaped bird that later turned out to be a great-tailed grackle.
<a href="http://www.snugharbor.com/albums/ravenroad/P0001247?full=1"><img src="http://www.snugharbor.com/albums/ravenroad/P0001247.sized.jpg" alt="Great-Tailed Grackle at Highway Rest Area" height=427 width=640></a>
Soon after leaving the rest area, we came into Needles. This is a town that probably only means anything if you've driven through it, or if you're a fan of <cite>Peanuts</cite> cartoons and know about Snoopy's brother Spike. However, it's important in another way: Needles is where I-40 (and the former US 66) cross the Colorado River, forming a part of the Arizona/California border.
<a href="http://www.snugharbor.com/albums/ravenroad/P0001256?full=1"><img src="http://www.snugharbor.com/albums/ravenroad/P0001256.sized.jpg" alt=The Colorado River, near Needles, CA" width=640 height=427></a>
We stopped at a KOA Campground and picked up one of their nationwide directories, as we wanted to pitch the tent tonight.
Night fell soon after we crossed the river and entered Arizona. I'd never been here before. Actually, every region we passed through was new to me in one way or another, but here was a whole new state, with weird rules about Daylight Saving Time: the state doesn't do it. But, Daylight Saving Time is observed on the Navajo Reservation, where we spent most of Day Three.
<blockquote><cite>Crossing the river delivers you from the Barren Lands and into Aztlan, a vast and sundrenched land, ancestral dwelling place for a confederation of tribes. Oh, sure, there's Navajo, Hopi, Zuni, Acoma... but the Chicano and Anglo tribes also have their say in things. Between them, they select a chief of chiefs, first among equals, but in everyday affairs each tribe is a nation unto itself... it is a land whose powers are Holy People, whether you call them Yebichei or Kachina, where Old Man Coyote yips at the moon and the eerie flute of Kokopelli whistles a reply. The sun is hot, the food is hotter, and it'll take more than luck to find the wells and watercourses here.</cite></blockquote>
It's 167 miles from Needles to Williams, fleeing the sun into the deepening dusk, chasing and catching the night in my radiator grille. As the sun sank behind us, we found several new sorts of flowers, most noticeably the graceful red-tipped arch of ocotillo. Too harried to take pictures, we kept on, and on, and on. We did, however, start supplying soundtracks for the landscapes, starting here with <a href="http://www.canyonrecords.com/cr7020.htm"><cite>Inside Monument Valley</cite></a>, a nifty little duet album between a pair of flautists, one modern and one Native American, playing in Monument Valley, Utah, and accompanied by local birds (including ravens).
Williams, Arizona, rather like Holbrook, isn't important so much because of where it is. Williams is another transient place for transient people because it's only fifty-seven miles south of our Surprise Added Destination...
Oh, but that's for tomorrow. Tonight, then, leave Our Heroes under a waxing moon in a blue and gray Winnebago tent where the little battery-powered lamp has just winked out. They have discovered Late Registration means slipping a twenty in an envelope and writing where you came from and where you're camping on the outside, and have set things up in a great hurry to beat the temperature, which in this biome falls with a nigh-audible <em>thud</em>. In the distance, a farm dog barks in consternation because the coyotes are <em>right there</em>, they're <em>outside the fence</em>, and c'mon <em>lemme at 'em</em>! The coyotes yip and howl back in laughter, inviting dear old Fido to come right out, yes, please do, and there'll be fine running under the moon until they catch Fido, at which point there will be rather pointed discussions on the topic of lunch. Fido, should he break loose, will be buying...
Night, y'all.
-- Lorrie, in Holbrook, Arizona, principal entry finished 23:52 MST, 4 May 2004.
no subject
Date: 2004-12-13 06:52 pm (UTC)Dont know who you are but thought I'd tell you this. Was trying a new (for me) blog/rss search engine and for want of anything better used "mojave camping" as the search key. Wound up at your livejournal entry
Riding the Ravens' Road: Day Two: Buttonwillow, CA to Williams, AZ
Seemed to be just what I needed. I should be on that road at this very moment but some less than desireable being crunched my camping pickup the other morning while it was parked overnight in front of my house. Literally hit-and-run since I got out there in time to see him running down the street, leaving 30 year old Cadillac stuck underneath my truck, 15 feet further up the street than I orignally parked it.
Getting another persons impressions of a part of the earth I love (well, not Buttonwillow for certain, but the desert?, yes), with spiritual overtones, was a real treat. Just what I needed.
Buena suerte
no subject
Date: 2004-12-14 09:59 pm (UTC)-- Lorrie