It is easy to overlook the close at hand out of excessive familiarity especially when exalted instincts pull you around the next bend in the road in a quest for new adventures.
Santa Barbara sits geographically and climatically in Southern California. The city prefers to look north to perhaps more enlightened, less ephemeral folks, but it pretends. Its physical identity sits at the edge of the great Los Angeles breathless spread that vacuums all in its path but spews more dirt than it removes. The horizontal pile of cities and counties, commerce and industry, traffics in the illusion inherent to motion.
The city of angels stretches over 1,200 km², some effervescent, many not quite heavenly. Its influence swallows up hundred of outlying suburbs in a procession of strip malls and residential developments that repeats itself, uninterrupted except for the insurmountable, ad infinitum and ad nausea, a hundred kilometers north, east and south but not quite west thanks to the Pacific Ocean. To deride the urban planning and land use is to miss the point. Los Angeles is a crasser version of the unfettered real estate speculation that rules the land throughout the U.S. outside of isolated exceptions, to deliver the citizenry soulless cities prostituted to automobile-driven commercial whims
California dreamin’ it is not.
Worthwhile attractions on the periphery do not lack. Even as congestion slows travel and pollution obscures the views, the mountains, deserts and beaches still beckon on the fringes. I am just not a fan of 14-lane freeways.
For unexplained reasons, I responded to the call of the wild even if it entailed squirming through its opposite first.
For the moment, the scenic Pacific Coast Highway remains a dependable and mostly engrossing entrance through the urban backdoor. The sole approach from the beach to bluff-top Santa Monica will shutdown while it is rebuilt and the hillside stabilized starting in 2008. The PCH will also undergo construction. The simultaneous projects are bound to cause major disruptions.
In Venice, but on the nondescript and hectic Lincoln Blvd. far from the pulsating oceanfront boardwalk, Elisabeth and I waited a half hour before a table opened up at the tiny Baby Blues. We feasted on exquisitely tender smoky baby back ribs, a slowly cooked meat that came off the bone without effort and dabbed it with “Porno Hot” sauce. We picked mashed potatoes (succulently if indulgently crafted with butter, cream and blue cheese!), cole slaw and collared greens for “fixins.” The hole-in-the-wall exudes a gently rowdy fun. We felt like barbecue regulars by the time we hit the road and zipped on the I-10 through the breadth of the region under cover of darkness. I picked Redlands, a city best enjoyed at night, because it offered the cheapest hotel on a Saturday night.
While stopping for gas a year ago in adjacent San Bernardino, my gaze had been drawn to a woman sporting large breasts who was screaming obscenities at some unseen recipient from across the road. She dashed across, oblivious to passing motorists, determined (her choice of words left no doubt) to settle a score with the undetected wrongdoer. As she approached me, breast a-flappin’, my curiosity turned to the gun she was waving frantically. I continued to pump fuel into the car’s tank as she passed within two meters, arrested in my reaction by the singularity of the moment.
This anecdote may not be indicative of every day life in San Bernardino, one of the pillars of the so-called Inland Empire. But with rundown businesses, vacant lots, temperatures that hover above 30º in summer and unhealthy air, the visitor should have no trouble leaving the lowlands behind and escape for the hills.
Unless you happen to be here before or after a winter storm, you might be hard pressed to identify the San Bernardino Mountains, even as they loom 1,500 meters directly above the city. The rejection comes swiftly. In a matter of minutes, the windy highway escapes the atonal dirge for a forested rhythm, melodic and peaceful.
And lakes. Several beautiful lakes cradle in a gash that runs alongside the crest of the range, framed by gentle peaks. Big Bear Lake is the largest.
(A week after our visit, Santa Ana wind-fueled wildfires would ravage these mountains and destroy hundreds of homes.)
Independent coffee houses come and often go. My usual lingering spot had disappeared. It could also be that I don’t remember well where it was. Instead, we settled on an outfit that has no trouble multiplying and finding new customers seemingly in every nook. Starbucks corners the market with two locations in the shopping center where we drank our morning coffee.
Last month, during a hike on a rare wet day in Santa Barbara, I sprained my left ankle running down the trail. I had heard a loud crack and feared worse damage. It was but a torn ligament. Bandaged up with a brace, I set out to climb to just below Snow Summit’s summit (eh eh) at 2,498 meters. While I took in the autumnal colors and lake views, Elisabeth enjoyed a bird’s perspective of the same from the ski area’s chairlift. We coordinated a photo opportunity after I got an early start.
A bunch of young kids pointed to the top of a ponderosa pine where a hawk had taken residence. Across the upper Santa Ana River canyon, I spied San Gorgonio, the tallest (3,503 m) of the three mountains that crown Southern California, and the only one I have not climbed. What is taking me so long? 
Bear Mountain is another Big Bear ski area operated by the same management team that oversees Snow Summit. Adjacent, but not linked. Along the road from Running Springs to Big Bear Lake, Snow Valley snags a few of the winter day trippers. Iffy snow coverage, small elevation drops and a lack of advanced terrain don’t deter a captive market in the tens of millions within an hour or two’s drive. Do not try to leave the lake on a Sunday afternoon!
Driven by the urge to play in the season’s first snow, I came up to the lake three years ago in November to find it under a blanket of fresh powder. I hiked the Cougar Crest Trail on the north shore where I captured this image.
We paused for lunch at the very competent Mandoline Bistro in the village where we let time pass with a jerk chicken sandwich and a succulent hamburger.
The descent on the north side of the range into the Lucerne Valley desert happens abruptly. In a matter of five minutes, the tall ponderosa pines give way to the lesser pinyons and junipers (reminiscent of New Mexico), which in turn are eclipsed by Mojave Desert shrubs.
Arid regions do not elicit much awe in the popular opinion. Often disparaged as wastelands, the sparse vegetation turns people off. Where humans have touched it, they have bruised it. Without the benefit of lush cover, scars render it ugly fast. In the best scenario, desert cities have excised their natural environments and fashioned a tropical utopia. Witness the improbable and relative lushness of Phoenix, Tucson, Palm Springs. Most desert communities do not benefit from upscale developers who gorge on a euphoria of green, however imported. The standard approach does not obsess over aesthetics. Desert communities function as refuges for fringe populations, discarded from mainstream preoccupations. Because arid lands in their natural state are unwanted and cheap, they embody the (last) remaining option for the millions who cannot afford more desirable surroundings.
Expedited constructions with minimal and perfunctory land use oversight damage the desert landscape of the western United States, from the Chihuahua to the Great Basin, the Mojave to the Sonoran. Not that rangelands fare better. The Natural Resources Conservation Service, a branch of the U.S. Department of Agriculture and not an environmental NGO perhaps prone to hyperbole, ranks 1.66 million km² of public and private grazing lands (nearly all of them in the West) in unsatisfactory condition. Grazing allotments cover 82 percent of the western lands controlled by the Forest Service and Bureau of Land Management. Overgrazing is rampant – even, or especially, in the desert, a habitat not high on the list of preferred munchies for cows. Desertification progresses on lands chewed by cattle and horses.
Apropos of nothing but since I am drowning you in numbers, I have recently learned that corn is grown on 378,786 km² in the U.S., a figure that closes in on the size of California (411,048 km²). This elevates the concept of monoculture to another level altogether.
When it is protected, after protracted battles waged against minority supporters, the desert shines bright. Absent moisture content, vistas falsely shrink distance and take in vast spaces. An impressive and imposing immensity of primal purity, bleached by a relentless sun.
Plenty to get lost in.
We stretched our legs around Joshua Tree’s Black Rock Canyon, with a campground smack against the park boundary – and the sprawl of the city of Yucca Valley. Elisabeth tried not to get poked by the sharp edges and points of Joshua Tree leaves. It was a short visit, and not near the parks’ fantastic jumble of boulders. A tease inside the realm of spatial infinity.
We dropped by the Water Canyon Coffee House, a promising roaster with a nonconformist vibe in the “center” of town. An employee maintains a MySpace page that promises “standards such as lattes, cappuccinos, mochas, white mochas, and carmaccinnos.” I am guessing this last concoction is a cappuccino with caramel, but I don’t know, not being fully versed in all the coffee permutations on menus across the United States.
I did order an espresso and requested a rind of lemon in it. The emo barista equated rind with juice and diluted the coffee with lemon. Undrikable.
Had I known, it would have been wise to detour to the village (so they say) of Joshua Tree, the next ramshackle hodgepodge up the road, for the inexpensive goodies at the Beatnik Café, a decidedly counter-cultural outpost in a region dominated by the less peaceful sounding Marine Corps Air Ground Combat Center.
Eric and I blew past the Big Morongo Canyon Preserve last April, pushed onward by diminishing time and increasing wind. I have fond memories of this unexpected oasis, but I do not recall it to be that pleasant. With the benefit of late afternoon slanted sunlight, we ambled around a marsh on a raised boardwalk, ducking through a luxuriant forest of mesquite, willow, cottonwood, palm, sycamore, bulrush and cattail, before emerging in bone-dry surroundings. Perhaps it is because the preserve’s size increased from 1,578 hectares to 11,736 hectares since I last visited (thanks BLM) and now sports 19 km of trails, but it felt gloriously new and exciting to (re)discover it. 
In early December, I will take part in a Desert Institute naturalist trip into Joshua Tree’s hidden canyons and rock jungle. Afterwards, I pledge a longer outing in the preserve. Unless I get carried away with other plans.
As usual, winds intensify as the highway abandons the shelter of the mountains. Near Desert Hot Springs, it cuts across the path of the prevailing winds that furiously exit the low San Gorgonio Pass, squeezed between the San Gorgonio and San Jacinto summits. Protected by three thousand meters of the latter, Palm Springs feels not a breeze, which may not be a great advantage during the scorching summers.
In the middle of October, the temperature sits sensibly at 30º, a climate that invites residents of much colder parts. Hotel rates climb as the mercury drops. I labored to locate a property where Elisabeth could relax by the swimming pool while I would go hike, one that does not exude the charm and character of a prison block. And a cheap one.
Full prepayment without possibility of cancellation did not inspire confidence. The room at the Caliente Tropics Resort in Palm Springs was more tastefully furnished and comfortable than I imagined. Tiki torches framed the swimming pool and hot tub. With carved wooden figures, they lent a tropical flair to the desert air with just a hint of kitsch. At US$50.60, all taxes and surcharges included, it is a steal. Even more so at €35.40, a pittance thanks to the anemic dollar.
Foreign visitors, come this way!
To afford this little trip (car rental, two hotel nights, fuel), a worker earning the minimum wage in Australia needs to work 17 hours and 4 minutes. A French employee has to put in 17 hours and 40 minutes; a Briton must stay a little longer at 18 hours and 31 minutes. British Columbia workers will take 25 hours and 19 minutes. (These countries offer publicly funded health care.)
In California, minimum wage earners will work for 27 hours and 57 minutes. Residents of the 19 U.S. states with either no state minimum wage or one at or below the federal level will stick around for 35 hours and 49 minutes. This version of upward mobility requires that employees not get too comfortable with a decent salary – and not get sick on the way up.
Stan O’Neal, celebrated only yesterday for his success at masterminding strategies to profit from the poor credit rating of mortgage applicants, has left the building. The Merrill Lynch chairman and chief executive’s reversal of fortune mirrored that of the subprime crisis, which forced the financial management firm to report a $2.24 billion quarterly loss, the largest in its 93-year history, after posting a $7.9 billion write-down.
O’Neal won’t collect a golden severance package. The ousted leader will pocket only $161.5 million in retirement benefits. Sorry to hear that. Toronto’s Globe and Mail reports that “some consultants … are actually praising the firm for taking a tough stance.” Tough punishment indeed. In a candid and forthright New York Times article, reporter Eric Dash observed that in the waning days of October when O’Neal’s fate was precarious, Wall Street bid up Merrill Lynch’s stock, handing him a paper gain of $16 million.
The dollar sinks, incomes stagnate and wage inequalities grow, real estate foreclosures reach 50-year highs, savings rate plummets and indebtedness skyrockets, budget deficits increase, appropriations shrink. If Wall Street’s happy, I’m happy.
We reserved a table at Pomme Frite for the last prix-fixe menu seating. Even as it consisted of 
a mushroom velouté, mussels marinière and a dame blanche dessert, the waitress strove to steer us toward additional specialties, appetizers, beverages and coffee. I picked up a potent (8.5 percent alcohol) Ename after my intial choice of a Wittekerk was not available. Belgian monks have labored for centuries to craft bountiful brews. I enjoyed the fruit of their passion poured in a dedicated glass.
The $19.99 Pomme Frite prix fixe follows the European practice of pricing selected dishes cheaper than if they were ordered individually. Stateside it is often a pricey device hawked by upmarket restaurants. The French Laundry, a famed Napa Valley eatery, receives more praise from Condé Nast Traveler in its November 2007 issue, for being one of “the 20 most influential restaurants” with its cornet of salmon tartare, a contribution that “has reshaped the culinary landscape the world over.” The amuse bouche “has helped popularize the tasting menu concept,” says chef/owner/visionary Thomas Keller.
I am not sure how many people in the U.S. know what a cornet or an amuse bouche (amuse gueule, when I grew up) is, but my general sense is that they wont pay the required $240 to decipher the delicacies on the prix fixe.
Paging Mr. Stan O’Neal. Please report to the French Laundry. Move over Pomme Frite, why don’t ya?
The southern end of the Lykken Trail etches across a near-barren hillside and is easily identified from our hotel window. A little less so in the photograph, possibly, I will grant you that. While Elisabeth soaked, swam and sunned herself, I ascended the steep switchbacks that lace up the steep mountain. The Agua Caliente band of Cahuilla Indians restricts access into Tahquitz Canyon, but from my vantage point I was able to peek, free of charge, into the narrow and tight passage, famous for its waterfall and home to the banished shaman Tahquitz. From Kak wa wit to Pal hani kalet, I could spot the thin ribbon of greenery that courses alongside the intermittent creek. The low angle of the sun, however, kept the south side of the canyon in the shade and makes it difficult to see on the photograph.
My ancient map (circa 1988) shows a continuous trail, north and south of the falls. My impression is that the Lykken Trail has been spilt into two unconnected halves because of the Tahquitz Canyon in the middle. Palm, Murray and Andreas, three canyons collectively branded Indian Canyons and also on tribal lands, present more extensive options to explore.
Through my binoculars, I could see the hotel and pool. The warm weather prompted me to go bare-chested for the downhill journey. I picked up the pace and even ran a bit, careful not to aggravate my healing ankle. I wore the brace once again. My foot looks larger and fits uneasily in my tight hiking boot.
For the first time, we lunched at a vegan restaurant. Elisabeth picked the Chinese-save-the-chicken-Salad and I promoted world peace (per the menu) by selecting the Gandhi Bowl and munching on Jasmine and brown rice, steamed veggies and blackened tempeh topped with cranberries and a wild (did they mean mild?) curry sauce. Native Foods substitutes soy goodies (!) like tempeh and seitan for the traditional protein fare. Seitan, which you should try not to pronounce like Satan, is classified as a wheat meat – if you can picture that. The cheery restaurant hides in the back of a shopping center, beyond a construction site. For all the obscurity, it didn’t lack customers. Native Foods is also down the road in Palm Desert, in Westwood by UCLA, and at Aliso Viejo and Costa Mesa in Orange County.
They occupy a prominent place in the popular imagination of desert images. Palm trees have come to be identified with all things warm and dry, but you will not find them in the wild far from water. The iconic California tree abounds in all self-respecting communities even in the outer reaches of the Bay Area, but these examples owe their presence to gardeners, not natural predilection.
Palm trees colonize where there is abundant water. It can be wholly underground, or have been pushed to the surface. Earthquake faults or cracks, abundant in the area, collect ground water that attracts other plants and animals. Oases are impossibly lush and much cooler than the nearby ambient air.
The Coachella Valley Preserve protects several oases who dense foliage contrasts sharply against the backdrop of the barren Little San Bernardino Mountains on the outskirts of Thousand Palms. Three lie within a short walk.
To step in is to enter a moist universe, an immediate assault on senses parched by the dry air. To call it a jungle is not an understatement. Dead leaves hang around the trunk of palms from the tree top to the ground, forming an impenetrable skirt that hides the comings and goings of shy reptiles. The fringed-toed lizard might be lurking, but I don’t think I have ever seen it. On occasion, I have heard and then seen rattlesnakes.
The mass of dead fronds, no longer spiny but still mighty pointy, bulks up on the comparatively thick California fan palm. They are stouter than their anorexic relative, the Mexican (border, what border?) fan palm, whose slender trunk bends seemingly to the point of breakage during wind storms. Like at Big Morongo, a wooden boardwalk bridges the soggier parts of the trail.
To step out is to return to a landscape more desiccated than ever, its sand, shrubs and occasional tree marooned in a forlorn and austere world.
Waging resolute forces, I flickered through the burden of reversed agony, rewinding the 338 kilometers back home in 2 hours and 55 minutes.
Do the math.
Pow wow dances may resemble ceremonial or religious celebrations, but they are not. It’s a little trickier to find out about Corn, Deer, Harvest or Buffalo dances. They obey to a religious calendar that has no equivalent in the white world. To avoid turning the dances into spectacles, tribes do not publicize them actively and queries may return ambiguous answers. Invest some time (rethink the concept of time), do some research and be respectful. Be inconspicuous. Forget cameras. Stay clear of sacred sites. Don’t applaud.
