Salton Sea: Part 1

I first visited the Salton Sea when I was about 13. I drove out there with my father on a family trip to San Diego while my brother and mother toured colleges that he didn't have the grades to get into. We had rented a Ford Mustang, not one of the cool, fast ones but a model apparently reserved for Hertz Rent-A-Car where the speedometer only goes to about 85mph. We left the hotel early in the morning and headed East. Once we had left the greater San Diego Metropolis behind and were cruising on the great two-lane roads I would explore so thoroughly as an adult, my father pulled the car over. "Want to drive?" he asked.

About five minutes later I was behind the wheel for the first time, trying to figure out which pedal did what. I am truly impressed as I look back at the blind trust my father placed in me that day. The road was straight and we scarcely passed another car but that did not make up for the fact that I was 13 years old and about four feet, four inches tall. At one point he asked how fast we were going. I hadn't dared to look away from the road so I had no idea. When I chanced a glance at the dials I saw the needle pinned and shaking against the plastic under the 85. We shared a brief laugh before I was ordered to pull over, my inaugural moment in the driver's seat over.

An hour or so later, with my father back safely behind the wheel, we hit our first dirt road. This, we took for about three miles before we parked the car about 100 yards from the shore of the great Salton Sea, the gigantic saline lake held firmly in the lore of California, the baffling anomaly of biodiversity, the huge body of water that I had never heard of.

In the late Spring heat of the Mojave, I waited as my father fulfilled one of his dreams, floating in the Salton Sea. An hour later we headed back to the car, hungry and hot. I melted my shirtless skin on the vinyl seat and desperately waited for the AC to kick in. My father turned on the car, flipped the AC on and stepped on the gas. The engine whined as the tires hissed and spat mud in a wide arc behind the car. I stared at the side view mirror as mud struck it, at the mountains many miles away, the vast expanse of flatness between us and them, the solar radiation liquifying the horizon and at the small letters telling me that all of these things were actually closer than they appeared. I looked at the ground, we were not moving.

After hiking about a mile the mountains still seemed pretty far away. After another mile we walked through the front door of some poor old man's trailer. We intended to use his phone but the idea of calling for help was not option for him. He was a hardened, grizzled old man and he insisted on helping us personally. I sat in the bed of his beat up old pickup next to the wood that we would soon wedge under the tires of our rental car. We passed jackrabbits, desert shrubs and rusted shells of discarded vehicles.

It only took a few minutes to free our car from the sticky mud. Soon after, having said our thanks that were waved off with a warm smile, we were on our way.

It is now nearly twenty years later and I find myself in search of the Salton Sea of my father's dreams and of my own vague and fading memories.  I the passing years I have spent months exploring the Mojave, driven to 49 states, lived in the only one you can't drive to, lived a year backpacking through Europe and Asia and have even floated in the Dead Sea. I am a married man looking at having children of my own but can't shake the draw of a place that my father showed me that helped shape my love of exploration and of America's southwestern deserts.

To be continued...

See 'The Salton Sea: Part 1' in photos.

Route taken on a 2006 road trip.

The Last Three Weeks in Pictures

Jerusalem Old City

Fishing in Istanbul

I went two for two.

Hagia Sophia at night.

Western Wall enthousiasts.

Warming in the sun at the Blue Mosque in Istanbul.

The far reaches of Petra.

One of the sharpest carvings in Petra.

Safer than a camel.

This guy was into it.

Best city entrance I have ever seen.

The amazing Hagia Sophia light and the amazing Uwey.

Hampi, India

India has loomed over our trip. The very word has altered conversations. A sort of anxious excitement, like the rise of a roller-coaster, has dimmed the easiness of our travels. We were scared to find out what it was about the subcontinent that evoked fear and passion from fellow travelers whether they had set foot in the country or not. We have spent our time largely and roughly within 'the loop' of Southeast Asia: Vietnam, Thailand, Laos and Cambodia. Apparently, 'the loop', as defined by a well-traveled Canadian, was no preparation for India. I disagree.

Once you have spent nearly four months touring Southeast Asia, you become hardened to a few certain facts that became enormously helpful adjusting to life in India. I will list a few:

-Lanes in the road mean nothing.
-Car horns are not for anger.
-Bathrooms are not meant to be clean.
-Some people are dirt poor.
-Littering is the norm.
-You are a foreigner and therefore have more money than pretty much anyone else.
-Locals want your money.

With these and other relevant facts in your back pocket, navigating India is quite doable. The difference that inspires such emotion is that these aspects of travel are amplified in India. With that said, I will describe an anomaly.

I had great difficulty remaining in the top bunk I had been assigned on our 'sleeper bus'. It was a wide, flat slot roughly five feet above the floor of the swaying deathtrap. Uwey was next to me on the window side, which was slid halfway shut to prevent her from prematurely evacuating on any one of the G-force turns. We arrived in Hampi with the sun.

We had first learned about the town from a girl we had met on a snorkeling trip in Vietnam. Since then we have heard it in passing and read a bit about it in our book. Still, we were not prepared.

The landscape around the town could be described as a 'tropical Joshua Tree'. Granite outcroppings dominate the land in every direction, rising and falling, lit and shadowed by the harsh morning light. Ancient temples freckled the rocks everywhere you look.

This was the great ancient Hindu kingdom and houses the oldest continuously functioning Hindu temple in the world. But at that hour none of these facts interested us as much as a cup of coffee so we swatted away the rickshaw drivers and walked into town.

There, we found a waking ancient city with shops opening from within crumbling cubbyholes. We located an open restaurant on the roof of a hostel and sat down. From those seats we were treated to the real gem of the town: the river. Small this time of year, the river meandered and flowed through the shallow valley, around huge boulders and finally out of view.

Life vibrated beneath us. Hundreds of people bathed or washed clothes or dishes, men fished, the temple elephant, Lakshmi, got her morning bath. Goats, cattle and dogs wandered the green grass as water fowl flew by. It was breathtaking. We finished breakfast and headed to the water below. After a while, we remembered how tired we were and decided to find a room.

Hampi is unofficially divided into two parts by the river. One side, the temple side, is holy and therefore everything from alcohol to meat to tobacco is strictly prohibited. We had heard that this side was dead after 9pm. The other side was reputed to have a much more relaxed atmosphere so we headed that way. The only connection between these two sides is a small motorboat that acts as a ferry. For 15 Rupees, or about 30 cents, you can cross from one side to the other. We boarded the ferry, found a reasonable room and took a long nap.

Over the next few days we explored the area. The temples and ruins never ended. With a few notable exceptions, the ancient structures themselves were not striking. Most were rough-cut structures built from the ubiquitous granite. It was this fact, though, that gifted them their charm. I have never seen a place where the man-made blends so seamlessly with the natural.

Fees are only charged at some of the temples with the vast majority open and absurdly accessable. We spent days wandering the granite slopes, happening upon hidden gems and wondering what the fuss was about India.

But as I said, Hampi is an anomaly and even within was the shit, litter and poverty. Our calloused eyes and noses breathed and viewed the differences, an act we are now trained to perform. We were shocked by the boulders and weathered hills, the burning piles of garbage we could ignore. There is little doubt that if we had magically transported from San Francisco, CA to Hampi, India, our time and senses would have been occupied processing the shit, litter and poverty.

India is different, it is a loud place, it is a place of smells and sights that are ultimately surprising but for us, riding our wave of sensory boot camp, they are the norm. We have spent time in far less charming places since we left Hampi, places where the Indian ways beat at you without redemption and still we go on, hungry for what the next town or city holds for us.

The Fine Print

"Which way does the trail go?" Uwey asked panting. The sweat pouring off her face and mixing with the dust, making her look like she was crying mud.

"Straight up." I repeated breathlessly. It was a funny question considering we had been working our way up for two long days. The only exception being three hours earlier that morning when we had scrambled straight down. We were nearing the end of the second day in our trekking adventure that took us to the rim of the second largest volcano in a country formed entirely by volcanoes. Mt. Rinjani stands at 12,224 feet and holds a breathtaking lake in its crater. We signed up for the trip thinking it would be a nice change of pace from the slow beach life we had been living. We felt that we may end up lulled into eternity by the lazy towns and lapping waves if we didn't make a clean break.

So, from Senggigi, Lombok we gave into one of the incessant street hawkers offering transport, bike rentals, hotels and necklaces and purchased the three-day adventure. No one told us what the trip would entail outside of drawing a line on a flat map and explaining the rosy details of our equipment, guides and porters.

The next morning we were picked up at the modest hour of 5am and hastily driven across the island. Waiting in the van were two girls, one from England and one from France. At that hour no one had much of a mind for conversation and as the sun rose behind the mountain on which our friendships would grow, we all failed to embellish on the previous night's sleep.


At around 7am we pulled into our last civilized stop, half homestay, half trekking headquarters. There, we were fed a breakfast that would become nauseatingly familiar. Over these plates of Indonesian pancakes we made our formal introductions. The four of us were joined by three other guys, two from Germany and one from Ireland. 'Team Awesome', as we would come to be known, was formed.

After a few fittings of promised boots that wouldn't fit, we all loaded into the bed of a small truck and started up the mountain. We were let off about two miles later and hiked to the park entrance. The path was clear and easy and we followed, packs light on our backs, unknowingly.

The trail is set up in stages with rest stops placed every hour or two along the way. The welcomed sight of those small, green platforms sits in my mind like a cup of coffee in the morning. We landed at the first of these stops around 11am where our crew of four porters and our guide set about making a fire to cook us lunch. The trail to that point had been tantalizingly steep through a lush rain forest full of shade and monkeys. We had tread steadily over sprawling roots that doubled as perfect steps, Uwey and I, with little more than a walk through town as our condition, were feeling fine. A lunch of Ramen noodles, potatoes, green beans, carrots and a hard-boiled egg were delivered steaming. We ate what we could and handed the rest to Paul, the Irishman, who had an appetite fit for the climb. This would become standard procedure. As the porters repacked their impossible loads we were informed that the next stage was the most difficult. Lost somewhere in that vast void between languages, the word 'yet' was omitted. We motivated each other for the toughest leg of the trip, readied our minds for a little pain, told ourselves that we just had to get through this next section and the going would be easy. Our brains compartmentalized, a profoundly useful yet extremely dangerous practice when it concerns mountain climbing. Not one of us; not Cecile who regularly tops the Pyranees, not the Germans, Fabian and Patrick, who's idea of traveling is to conquer, Not Paul who has made adventure his life, not Lindsey with her youthful exuberance and certainly not Uwey nor I, had any notion of what lay ahead.

We trickled into the the next stop, sweat dripping down our backs, feeling congratulatory. This victorious sentiment was met with, 'Yes, more steep.', and a 10 o'clock arm gesture from the guide that dropped the smiles from our faces and the strength from our legs. We had all pictured a trail - a fictitious one on this mountain - where we chatted and laughed, where we trudged along smiling and marveling at the natural beauty. That trail must exist somewhere for we all saw it and we all talked about it as we huddled, some 9,000 feet above the sea, and ate our dinner that night. We had climbed about 7,000 feet that day, the last 3,000 or so at that 10 o'clock angle.

The trail had been so steep that much of it required all four limbs in the loose gravel, clawing for grip and taking steps that often slid their progress backwards. A look up the mountain at the path we were expected to follow was as detrimental to our motivation and frame of mid as a death in the family. When we had finally hobbled into camp we had had to be reassured that it was indeed the stopping point for the day. When the porters began to raise our tents we could, at last, drop our guards and our packs.

In our mind, day two was supposed to be easy. We had been promised a swim in the lake and a soak in the hot springs. After cresting the rim of the volcano by 8am, we followed as the group dropped 3,000 feet into its throat. We savored the view from the top; the lake, the second crater that violently arose in 1994, the smiling faces of our new friends that I was sure we would soon see gracing the pages of Facebook. We have our own images, the two of us frozen in that moment when we still thought it would be an easy day. If we had known what was mind for our bodies, I'm sure we would have saved the energy it took to form those smiles.

So we dropped, many times relying on or waving feet to find a proper foothold and to keep us from dropping hundreds of feet at a time. The descent was so precipitous that at one point I warned Uwey that I may slam her into the rocks football style, as I steadied myself below her, if I saw her slip in an effort to save both of our lives. The margin for error had disappeared with the sun the previous day. This went on for hours.

At last the path evened out and we could step one foot in front of the other. It was amazing what a gift it felt like to walk nearly flat as we passed ideal swimming holes, sure that each one was the spot of our promised dip. But the group filed on, our guide ruthlessly leading around a bend or up and over a small hill. We hadn't quite let go of the idea that this day was supposed to be the most mild of the three but as we walked around half of the large lake a quiet understanding settled in. This was not a pleasure trip. Enjoyment would have to be extracted piece by piece, in the moments in between pain, in the time when our functions were not expended in each next step. The lake was beautiful,  beyond question, if for nothing more than the flat expanse it offered our assaulted sense of balance. The clear waters revealed fish swimming easily among the mossless rocks and brought me back to the rivers of California where the torrid currents yield to pools of placid interest to both fish and fisherman. I holstered a dive, remembering that my camera lay buried beneath the necessities on my back. The path rose and fell like my easing breath and as we passed locals, tents set already, I imagined our night amongst them making friends without sales.

After a long while we stopped in a perfect grassy meadow. This was the weak spot in the crater, like the pour spout of a gravy boat, where the lava last flowed down the mountain. We eased into the grass, heads propped on backpacks and legs laid out. A porter made the rounds to inform us that the long-awaited soak in the hot springs had come. We sauntered down the hill, the warm river flowing and dropping on our right. We lost sight of it for a moment - long enough to round a bend - before it reappeared boldly, its flow burgeoning into a large waterfall. We stripped to our bathing suits and got wet. We gathered beneath the waterfall and let the 90 degree water fall heavily over our bodies. The size of the falls blurred the line between shower and massage and we lingered. This was the time many of us had been anticipating and for some time we were unable or unwilling to budge. Then the porter returned. It was time for lunch.

Lakeside, the porters had built their customary fire and cooked our customary lunch of noodles, potatoes, beans and egg. We chose seats based on how far we could distance ourselves from the swarming mounds of trash that dominated the shore. The path had been marked by litter already but it seemed that the crews packed most of the garbage along waiting for the most beautiful spot to dump. It was disheartening to learn what little care was given to the resource that fed their families. Again, visions flashed through my mind of California, this time the Eastern Sierra Nevadas and I was gripped by a quiet pride.

As we ate our lunch, Paul made a a foolish mistake. He asked the guide where we were headed. As we followed the guides arm up and extended the route of his fingers, a few bricks materialized in our packs, our blisters grew and the memory of the blissful hot springs, not yet an hour old, were replaced by relatively elderly torments. We were to climb another 4,000 feet to a point on the crater rim higher than we had been earlier that morning. I thought of the brochures and the pictures on the walls of the trekking offices, of the salesmen's rehearsed speeches and the incredible exclusion of the reality we would face.

The porters repacked their burdens too soon and we were on our way. The first mile or so was pleasant and flat enough for us to absorb the tremendous beauty encircling us. Rinjani creates its own weather and clouds stopped short by its mass swirled and cleared, moistened our skin then vanished, breathing in and out from the sea. We could see for miles. Then, as our trajectory assured, we began to climb.

The path rose steadily at first then through fits of elevation. These fits became tantrums before the path steadied again, this time straight up the wall of the volcano. Looking up the mountain I had expected switchbacks, the only reasonable approach to such a grade. I was wrong.

"Which way does the trail go?" Uwey asked, holding back tears. It had been four hours since we had left the hot springs.

"Straight up." I repeated as steadily as I could manage. My words of encouragement throughout that climb settled my mind as much as hers.

This stretch of the trip could as much be called a hike as a marathon could be called a jog. We were mountain climbing, the rocks that sprung up worn black by countless hands, footholds chiseled where no natural breaks could be found. And steadily we rose, past the waves of clouds, past the trees. Each step we crested was one step closer to the finish line I reminded myself out loud, hoping Uwey may overhear. The steady progress we managed was akin to the second hand on a clock on the last day of school before Summer break. Logic told us that the end was drawing near but every other sense labored in disbelief. We met Cecile perched on a ledge, her teary breakdown passing, and we became a crew of three.

Finally, logic prevailed and five hours after lunch had been served, six since we had spared the breath to laugh beneath the hot water, we limped into camp. The lake was visible, as it had been along the way and Ganung Agung, the tallest mountain on Bali, rose above the clouds to the west, the sun drawn irretractably towards it and they mingled brilliantly.

Team Awesome reassembled and ate, our unfinished portions filing to Paul. The early morning would temporarily break the group again, some gathering the strength to crest the peak at 3am, another three hours to the top reported to be by far the most challenging and the rest of us struggling to stay warm in our tents. I will forever admire Paul, Patrick and Fabian for acquiescing to that voice in their heads that said, 'You are already this far', or, 'What's six more hours there and back?'. Somewhere along the trail, maybe hour two or three, Uwey and I had conclusively decided not to attempt the summit. The reason was simple: we were trying to enjoy ourselves.

We were roused at 5am by Lindsey. "It's so beautiful! Wow!" she crowed at first light. We reluctantly rose from our first real bouts with sleep of the night to find the glow of the east, in our experience more often than not a time to find a bed, and met it sleepily. By the time we had traveled half a mile down the ridge and we saw the sun break bleeding along the horizon, we were pleased by our priorities.

Breakfast was served at about seven. By eight we were on the move. Those that had aspired to the peak would meet us along the way we were told. This was the last leg no matter what and we knew it was a steady descent. The path down was steep, it was dry and it was dusty. Uwey treaded tentatively at first and her footing was hard to find.

"Use your momentum," I advised, "kind of run." Then she was gone, I only knew where she had gone by the dust she threw. I followed, slaloming down the mountain, past the guide, past the other groups that had left an hour before. The rest stops came too soon now and we passed a few altogether, unthinkable 24 hours before.

"I just want this to be done with." she yelled over her shoulder as I asked her to slow down. I couldn't find an argument so I struggled to keep up. The path finally leveled to the point where we began spotting cow pies and I relaxed. No cow would have survived the path we had just traversed and I knew it would be easy going. Two miles later we intersected a road. A truck was parked, waiting. After a few group photos and cold sodas, we hopped in the back as we had done three days prior. It was over.

Topping Mt. Rinjani was one of the most demanding tasks I have ever undertaken and I can't help but think that if we would have been informed of the course we may have passed altogether. If we had sat, wide eyed, in a trekking office in Senggigi, looking at photos of women in tears, young, strong men turning around near the peak, the paper-thin sleeping bags and the depth of our own strength, we would have been frightened. Instead, a strong pride and warm memories of new friends and now, old boundaries, have replaced the shivering nights and relentless days.

The Gili Islands

So, weeks have come and gone without a post. This is certainly not because of any lack of interesting events during this time. I think maybe it becomes more difficult to garner novel insights on a life that has become just that, a life, a lifestyle. Friction is the force of one thing against another and often creates sparks. Not many people finish their daily commute and head to the keyboard to offer their take on the day and those that do we often refer to as self-indulgent, perhaps an ironic label coming from someone on a six-month vacation. It is also self-indulgent to call my insights novel.

The sun crests a new day at all times, sometimes mine and sometimes yours. The only notable aspect of this is that each new day we go on and new experiences - large and small - are presented. For our part we have had some impressing memories.

We have waded through days and floodwaters in Cambodia, celebrated our anniversary in a sleepy fishing village, watched a televion spontaneously combust in our room, explored Angkor Wat at sunrise, feasted on very cheap, fresh crab and tried to sleep during a violent and reckless night on a 'sleeper' bus.

We have spent a day flying from Cambodia to Bali and once there, many more on the beach. I have sliced my knee deeply on rusted rebar avoiding drunk motorists. We have rented a car and tested my driving skills (on the other side of the road) to find beautifully serene places just off the suicidal roads. We crossed an angry sea to dock on an island you can circumnavigate in an hour. We had a drunken stranger pay for that passage because of the memory of a friend's friend that perished on the alternate route we had chosen by budget.

So it is not a lack of events that has temporarily buried this blog under the sand of our footsteps but the overwhelming number of them. With that said, I will try to describe the very unique set of islands that we have spent the last eleven days enjoying. (Not my photo.)

Just off the Northwest corner of Lombok, an island adjascent to Bali, lie three relatively undeveloped, glorified sandbars called the Gili Islands. All three are roughly the same size. There is no motorized traffic here, only horse-drawn taxis and bicycles. Each Island is separated by about a fifteen minute boat ride and each has its own feel. (Left to right.) Gili Trawangan is the 'party' island in a loose definition of the term. Gili Meno has been described as the Robinson Crusoe experience and certainly fits that description better than any place I have ever seen. Gili Air is a sort of combination of the two, quiet with pockets of charming bars and restaurants, all on the beach.

There are no police on the islands, instead conduct is handled by overwhelming decency, the knowledge that the tourist trade is the only lifeblood and if need be by a village counsil. We heard the story of a young man that had stolen a camera from visitors a few years back. He was found quickly, beaten then permanantly exiled. It was the only such anectode on memory. We feel incredibly safe here. I have left my camera and money belt in the room, an unwise act anywhere else, and have an unburdened mind floating in the clear waters. There are not even dogs on the islands to inhibit nightly walks. Small credit is given freely - 'ok, pay me five thousand tomorrow', or, 'I give you twenty thousand later'. There is an air of honesty and friendliness unrivaled in our experiences thus far. It is both refreshing and familiar, a sense of the trust of home and the thrill of discovery.

It is from Gili Air that I write. Our time here has been steadily extended and our departure delayed by calls of, 'how about just one more day'. Five days after we planned to leave we have just decided to stay another night. There are no towns here, the area around the harbour is the most lively but I don't think five restaurants and a store will put a dot on the map. We are staying on the opposite side from there, the sunset side, and put off our big task of the day: walking to the harbour to exchange money, a thirty-minute, very pleasant stroll, for hours. There is nothing to do here if you don't dive, which we don't, besides lounge, eat, drink, swim or snorkel.

The people here must rank in the top five of the nicest on the planet. After just a few days we had friends all over the island. When Uwey asked what was in her drink, they not only explained, but took her behind the bar to mix one for herself, an act that ended in her bartending for over an hour. Everyone here plays the guitar and we have been invited to many beachside jam sessions where the curiosity of my backpacker guitar and its odd shape never cease to inspire curiosity. There is no 'E' on the island, that is to say no base note from which to tune so no guitar is ever quite right and it doesn't matter. The warm smiles and howling voices cover the inconsistency of the intonation.

We do have to leave, not just yet, but soon as there are no ATMs to be found. Our time here is unfortunately dictated by the amount of cash we have on hand. I know that when it does come time to say goodbye we will almost instantly miss this place. The Gili Islands are the image I had in mind when I thought of tropical beaches untouched. The warm, amazingly clear blue water is seemingly ripped from the pages of a travel magazine or depicted as September or October in one of those calendars you look at and say, 'one day'.

We are now planning a three day camping trip that will take us into the throat of a large volcano on the island of Lombok. The images we have seen online are breathtaking. We are excited for this next step in our trip but do so knowing that we may never see another place like the Gili Islands.

Jungle Beach

There is a place on the Central Coast of Vietnam generically named, Jungle Beach. The experience is nothing like the name. There may be places like it but I have neither heard of nor been to them. Jungle Beach is a 3.5 acre parcel of beachfront property owned, built, maitntained and run by a Canadian ex-pat. The 'resort' offers a variety of hand-built, beyond spartan accomodations that allow the land and atmosphere to dictate the experience. There were no windows and we could hear the ocean 20 feet away as we drifted to sleep. The huts were almost entirely coonstructed from bamboo and even the furniture was hand-crafted by the exceedingly creative owner.

Meals were included and prepared on-site and served family-style at tables that fostered conversation and new friendships. A perfect beach reached our front door and the warm water and steady breeze easily replaced the need for air conditioning.

We spent three nights at Jungle Beach. Our time was fairly evenly spent swimming, drinking and just sitting. I finally had the perfect opportunity to break out the guitar in a setting I imagined while packing it. We could have stayed much longer if our schedules had not been set for our return to Saigon.

The place has entered our travel lexicon. 'Well, it's no Jungle Beach.' is likely its most common use. Perhaps the best thing about Jungle Beach was its honesty. There was no pretense, it was not trying to be anything, it just was. Even the owner who was washed with 2,000 travelers a year and had earned the right to be jaded over his 13 years was highly personal and sometimes too honest. We took away many things from Jungle Beach but above all the knowledge that we will be back.