My Trails

There are few things quite so unsettling as to be driving along in the middle of nowhere and realize something is wrong with your vehicle. Why is it that vehicles break down on lonely stretches of highway, far from towns and civilization, never a single bar of cell service, and on Saturday night?  If ever there was a reason not to travel on a weekend, that would be enough. 

I decided to spend the first night of my trip in Chiricahua National Monument. It’s a nice, easy days drive to the park and the campground there is clean, quiet, uncrowded, and cheap. I also love the hiking trails that wind through the rock formations and along cliffs that once belonged to Cochise and his band of Apaches  I was looking forward to a couple of days of fun filled hiking and camping. 

But first I had to get there. On the map it looked like the shortest way was along a dirt road from Bowie, over Apache Pass, and then on to meet up with the highway out of Wilcox. I had driven the road before and knew what to expect, but it’s always a shock to actually transition from asphalt to dirt.  

A fine dust filled my van from the cloud kicked up by my tires. The leaky weather stripping and loose doors gave up the fight to keep it out and I finally opened the windows in an attempt to set up a crosswind evacuation battle, only to lose at that too. I tried driving slower but the washboard, rutted road set up a terrible vibration at anything less than dust cloud speed. 

As I neared Fort Bowie, I couldn’t resist the temptation to stop and walk back to the ruins one more time. I parked and made the 1 1/2 mile walk to the ruins in record time. I was interested to see if they had the crossed Cavalry swords on display that Richard found many years ago and returned for everyone to enjoy.  They did have the uniform decoration but there was no way to tell if it was the one he found. The Ranger on duty told me some of the artifacts are stored in Tucson. She said a lot of people now are returning items they or some relative found years ago. She remarked that it is a wonderful gesture. 

I returned to my van and drove the remaining dirt road to the highway between Wilcox and Chiricahua.  When I pushed on the brake pedal at the stop sign, my foot went clear to the floor.  I knew instantly that the constant vibration on my old rusty Ford had destroyed a brake line, weakened  by years of salt-saturated New York winters.  

Vehicles now have a dual system for brakes. If a line has a catastrophic leak, you still have some braking on the other cylinders. So at least I had a little bit of peddle. I pulled of the road and crawled under the van for a quick inspection – undoubtedly suspicious to the Border Patrol officer parked down the road – to asses the damage. The break in the line was in the worst place – behind the gas tank. Brake fluid ran down the frame and dripped onto the ground as I climbed in and headed for Wilcox. 

I thought I was destined to stay in Wilcox until Monday, but as I enquired at a auto parts store for repair service, I was directed to a couple of shops the clerk thought could help me. The first one said he was leaving and two more were closed already, but I finally found a repair shop just off of I10 that was open all day Sunday and even offered me a place to park and sleep out front. 

The next morning I hung around the shop and talked with the mechanics, walked to McDonalds for breakfast, and passed the time, as they fit me in sporadicly between other repair jobs. They ended up dropping the fuel tank to access the line, and then the straps holding the fuel tank broke when they were removed, requiring an improvised welded fix. I know that Eastern vehicles are hard to work on after the rust has attacked them for years. I’ve twisted off several bolts in my time. 

All said, it took until noon and $350 for a $20 line, but at least I’m going again. Tonight I’m at Chiricahua and will probably stay for a couple of days. I want to make sure the fix holds and I don’t have any other related problems before I head out. 

Every once in a while, someone will ask me about the title of my blog. I get that same look you get when a dog tips his head, and they ask, “What does it mean ‘Searching for Bronson’?” I’ve been thinking of changing the title again just to keep everyone guessing, but before I do, I thought I’d explain why I chose it.

In the late 60’s, there was a TV show called, “Then Came Bronson.” It starred Michael Parks as Jim Bronson, a loner that rides a motorcycle across the country trying to renew his soul. The show opens with tragedy as he loses a friend to suicide. Faced with the dilemma of continuing on in his executive lifestyle, living the corporate dream of climbing the ladder to success, and kissing a few behinds to get there, he decides to drop out and become a vagabond of sorts. His travels take him to different areas of the west where he imparts his values and morals to a lot of mixed up people. Most of the time – it seemed to me – it involved a pretty girl in some way or another.

I’m not sure if he ever found the meaning of life in all of his travels (the show only lasted two seasons), but I would have liked to ask him. Back east, I used to run with deer in the meadows at night, and it was probably just as enlightening as searching for Bronson. Who knew?

On Wednesday, Richard, Dianna, and I loaded my van with the bed for Carrie, pictures for Nancy (Dianna’s cousins), and keepsakes to store in there truck, and drove to Bakersfield.  The weather in Bakersfield was a lot colder than what I’ve been used to the last couple of weeks. It went down below freezing in the night. 

The next day we drove to Carrie’s home in Turlock. Dianna and Carrie went for a walk while Richard and I went to meet Carrie’s brother, Mike. I enjoyed talking to Mike and learning about nut farming. He’s a pretty cool guy. 

Carrie is a sweetheart. She and Dianna made a special dinner while Dick and I built a fire. There was wonderful conversation later that night as we sat around the fire, periodically snacking on maple sugar and bourbon balls. I’m so glad that I got to meet her. Bless her heart for letting me stay. 

The next morning, Dianna and Carrie went to breakfast with her dad. At 10:00 Carrie left for work and we said goodbye. Richard and I spent a couple of hours at the Castle Air Museum, while Dianna, feeling a little under the weather, sat in the car and read. We ate lunch at McDonalds, and said goodbye as they drove back home and I went towards the coast. 

It was hard to say goodbye. I’ve had such a wonderful time reconnecting with my brother. He is right that it seems like we’ve never been apart.  After a teary goodbye, I drove until I was just outside Salinas, CA, where I spent the night. The next morning I discovered that Monterey has a wonderful bile trail all the way around the bay, winding through historical places like Cannery Row and Fisherman’s Wharf. I rode for several miles taking in the sights until half the day was gone. 

My afternoon was filled with truly spectacular scenery as I drove down Highway 1. I stopped many times along the road through Big Sur to marvel at the beauty of the ocean where it meets the land. I could watch for hours as the surf pounds into the rocky cliffs, sending plumes of water high into the air. 

I spent the night at San Simeon State Park, and bright-n-early the next morning, drove to Hearst Castle. Imagine if you will a mansion built high on a mountain, and in every direction some 300,000 acres of prime real-estate,  overlooking the Pacific Ocean, and you will have some idea of the location of Hearst Castle. Now imagine that you can spend all the money you can dream of to build it, and you wouldn’t even be close to what’s there. Ornate fixtures, paintings, tapestries, and sculptures from all over the world. Gold inlay throughout, even at the bottom of the pool. It is no wonder all the movie stars of the 30’s-40’s-50’s, loved to go there. 

William Randolph Hearst was a fascinating man. I liken his ambition to build this mansion to the Egyptian Pharaohs building pyramids. And even all his money didn’t guarantee happiness in love. For most of his later life he kept a mistress some 30 years younger in age (Wait a minute…). 

From Hearst Castle it was only a short drive to Arroyo Grande, to deliver the remaining treasures to Nancy. It was nice to meet Nancy and we had a nice visit before I left to continue my pilgrimage. Tomorrow I will find a place to walk in the ocean, just to make sure it is real; I need to touch it before I leave. 

Not long after I arrived in Southern California, it became crystal clear why so many people live here. While every other part of the country lay buried under snow, suffered from ice and wind, or shivered from the cold, the LA area basked in warm sunshine. I have a hard time realizing it is January and February. 

I’ve had a great time here. To reconnect with my brothers fills me with such warmth, I can not tell you how good it has been. I met with Don and Betty on Sunday and we enjoyed breakfast together at one of their favorite places. Afterwards, we stopped at 24Hr Fitness where Michele, Betty’s daughter works so that I could say goodbye to her.   It was cool and rainy that morning so I recommended we take in a movie. I had seen True Grit before, but it is so good I wanted to see it again.  I tried to get Betty to close her eyes in one part of the movie but it was too late. Her mouth dropped open and her eyes popped out as one of the outlaws got his fingers chopped off. It was a fun time we spent together and a sad goodbye when I left. When we got back to Don’s, Jennifer and Patrick were there, so I got to say goodbye to them, too. 

Richard, Dianna, and I had made plans to visit Griffith Observatory that evening, but the weather was dreary and we thought we would have to cancel. As the afternoon rolled around, the sun came out and the clouds broke apart, inviting us to see yet one more attraction. 

We met Diannas sister, Julie, and her friend Ron just before dusk at the entrance of the observatory. From the top of Griffith Park, the lights of LA were just spectacular. A cool front associated with the weather brought crystal clear air that made the city sparkle. We watched a fascinating movie about our universe projected on a dome screen surrounding the theatre. The laser projector used in the theatre is state-of-the-art, displaying a phenomenal, realistic picture.  As you recline in your seat, it feels like your right inside the movie. 

There were all sorts of displays about astronomical things scattered throughout the building, and it seemed that Richard knew an awfully lot more about them than the rest of us did. He did concede, however, that Daryl might be able to correct him on some points.

After the observatory, we all ate at an Italian restaurant, recommended by staff at Griffith. Then it was time to leave and we said goodbye to Julie and Ron. Over the last few
weeks I’ve come to know Julie quite well. Through these hard times, I’ve moved furniture for her, worked with her through the yard sale, and enjoyed her company when we all went out to eat. She is a very special friend and I will miss her a lot. 

Between Richard, Dianna, and Julie, I could not pay for a thing. They bought me gas, took me to expensive restaurants, and Dianna fixed home cooked meals every night. Helping with moving and using my van was something I would have been happy to give, but every time I tried to pay for something, Dick would pull the bill away and say, “Your Money Is NO GOOD In California!”.

Right now I’m at a campground somewhere on the Pacific Coast Highway. This is turning out to be one of the most awesomely beautiful trips I’ve ever been on, and I will tell you about it in the next post, undoubtedly by the length of this post, more than you want to know. 

High profile vehicles like mine are no fun in the wind. My van danced and rocked as I drove through the San Gabriel Mountains, demanding all my attention just to keep from being buffeted into another lane. To say that it was windy is a gross understatement. A steady wind is one thing but strong gusts are yet another. They hit you with a thud, demanding all your attention just to keep a vehicle on a semi-straight line.

I was headed north to spend a day at Death Valley National Park. With temperatures in the summer reaching well over 110 degrees, this January weekend would be the best time for me and my old truck to tour the park. Richard told me the climb over the mountains just to enter the park would give my vehicle a workout both going up and coming down and I didn’t want to have to worry about overheating, too.

Highway 14 north was very nice. Valleys, canyons, and distant mountains dot the landscape, and to my relief, the wind calmed down as I descended into the lowlands. It wasn’t long before the Sierra Mountains came into view and I turned away from them towards Death Valley. It is amazing that the highest point in the lower forty eight – Mt. Whitney in the Sierra Mountains -and the lowest -Badwater Basin in Death Valley – are less than 100 miles (as the crow flies) apart.

I have a hard time coming to grips with the price of gas in California, so I passed by more filling stations than I should have. By the time I reached the road that turns into Death Valley, I hadn’t seen gas for twenty miles. I’m not sure what felt worse, the apprehension of running out of gas in Death Valley, or the reality – as it turned out – of paying $4.45 a gallon for a tank full at a run down mom and pop quickie store.

I spent the night at Stovepipe Wells in a campground built on a chunk of desert wasteland. It was little more than a parking lot divided by cement curbs into a two dimensional grid, sporting only one restroom for five-acres of campers. But it was quiet, cheap, and conveniently located for my next day of exploring.

In the morning, after a good night’s sleep in mild temperature, I was puzzled by the fact that it seemed to take forever to boil water for my coffee. I always thought that water boils easier at sea level than high altitude, but it sure didn’t seem like it.

I spent the day visiting historic and scenic sights scattered along the Valley floor. My first stop was at Scotty’s Castle in the northern area of the park. The story of Scotty’s Castle is in itself a tale right out of Hollywood, involving deception, wild west trickery, and the romance of a mansion built on the edge of a wasteland. The tours were expensive so I walked around the property and read information boards in the visitor’s center. Then it was off to hike one of the slot canyons near Furnace Creek.

In most parts of country, there is usually a transition of plains to foothills and then to mountains, but the mountains seem to rear directly from the valley in Death Valley. It doesn’t rain much here, but when it does, the soft mountain base erodes to form deep, beautiful canyons. I hiked up Golden Canyon to the Red Cathedral, unfortunately joined by about a hundred other people, enjoying an afternoon of 80-degree temperatures in January.

My last stop took me to the lowest point in the USA. At 282 feet below sea level, Badwater Basin holds the record high temperature of 135 degrees. It is an inferno of heat in the summertime. I walked to the edge of the salty lake and took pictures of a sign high on a cliff above the parking lot, marking the symbolic point of sea level.

Death Valley National Park was a fascinating place to visit. I always imagined the park to be a desolate desert of sand and rotting animal bones, but it was surprisingly beautiful in a unique sort of way. I’m glad I got to see another natural wonder in this vast land of ours.