Busted Down In Jackass Canyon

Desert Flyer

T he wind is full of Coyote today. Sometimes it blusters, sometimes it teases. Sometimes it

The wind is toying with me. It taunts me and dances with me. It blows cold, then warm. It
whispers then it shouts then it whispers again. Maybe it thinks I am not paying attention, but I
am. I am paying very close attention. I am paying attention with every sense.

I am parked on a rough, empty section of a 4WD road midway between Cow Hole Mountain and
Old Dad Mountain, looking west to Soda Lake which I crossed yesterday, its vast whiteness
shimmering today in the winter sunlight.
Spent last night here, and probably will again tonight.

I broke the truck yesterday.

While driving across a rocky, dry wash, the right front tire rode up over a large rock, which spun
inward, puncturing the oil line to the external oil cooler. Dumped five quarts of good Pennzoil
right there on the road. This is as far as this old beauty is going to get under her own power.

So here I am, waiting for someone to drive by so I can get a ride to Baker, about 14 miles due
north of me. In almost 24 hours I have not seen a single vehicle on this road or the more
commonly traveled Old Mojave Road, clearly visible where it crosses Jackass Canyon Road a
few miles north of me.

I cannot roam far off to explore, because I don’t want to miss a possible ride out of here. So I
pass the time by intently investigating my close-in desert surroundings, alternating with sitting or
lying somewhere out of the wind, reading or meditating or just watching the slow pace of a
desert afternoon.

But the wind tries to fool me. Every few minutes it conjures up the sound of a truck crunching
along the road. It always works; I pop up to scan the road in both directions with my binoculars.
I think the wind is laughing at me.

Finally I give up looking for another vehicle, and give in to the Coyote’s game. Just before
sunset, Coyote moved on. In the quiet gathering dusk, the hazy orange sun drops quickly behind
the far Western hills above Rasor junction.

Tomorrow, if I am still here, I will walk to Baker, a busy pit stop on Interstate 15 halfway
between Bakersfield and Las Vegas. Tonight I can clearly see the lights of the little crossroads,
14 miles across the flat desert from me. The commercial lights are fronted by a continuous river
of headlights pouring out of the Rasor Hills to the west, across Baker Valley, and disappearing
from view to the east. Day and night, the string of vehicles does not diminish. Cycles, cars, RVs,
trailers, trucks, and buses all rolling up Interstate15 to Las Vegas, two days before New Year’s
Eve.

I contemplate the blissful irony I find myself in: Thousands of people roaring along the freeway
a few miles away and here I sit unable to drive. At least I am well provisioned. I have plenty of
food and books, a warm bed, a bottle of port, and a crisp night sky.

I realize I am being given a great lesson in flexibility and acceptance.

Daybreak comes quick and quiet. Trickster Coyote wind is gone, at least for now. Yesterday I
dreaded walking to Baker; today I am ready. I have done my physical and mental preparations.
Last night I meditated and prayed about this walk. I asked my spirit guide, the Kit Fox, to grant
me perseverance and agility. I thanked the Coyote wind for being here and asked it to go away
now. I tried to prepare my mind for anything that might happen.

I also had recurring moments of intense fear. It went like this:

Eight months ago I couldn’t walk a block without getting terribly winded.

Six months ago I underwent angioplasty.

Two weeks ago I was back in the hospital for a checkup.

And now I’m gonna walk across the Mojave how far?????!!!!!!!!

I stuffed my pockets with the essentials: raisins, cheese, crackers, nuts, mirror, lighter, knife,
map, binoculars, a good book, and my nitroglycerin pills in case I heave over. But best of all, as I
am looking through my food box I discover a folded up piece of paper that I hadn’t seen before.
It was a note from my beloved:

To My Precious
One --

May this
journey

bring you
closer

to your own
heart

& path ---

I await your
return.

Big love,

Victoria

This is the capper. This is going to be a good day. The temperature is in the upper 50s now, so I
shouldn’t need a heavy coat (though I am mindful that desert weather can change abruptly). The
cold Coyote wind has moved on to somewhere else in the vast Mojave.

Lastly, I wrote a note (below) explaining my predicament to any passersby and left it on the hood
of the truck, weighted down by rocks. I fervently hoped someone would come along and give me
a lift, although I have not seen any 2-legged life for nearly 41 hours.
My ‘HELP’ Note

Grabbing a quart of water, I confidently headed down the road.

Jackass Canyon Road is a 4WD road running the length of Old Dad Mountain, a long, low,
nearly barren mass to my right. The road crosses innumerable dry washes and blow sand but
doesn’t seem to gain or lose much overall elevation. At first I walked in the brush parallel to the
road. The walking was easier on the sun-baked desert floor than the loose rocks of the road. Then
I realized, in a quick flush of embarrassment, that I was trying not to leave visible footprints.
That’s my normal mode when I’m in the desert, but this time I needed people to see me. After
all, using letters two feet high, I had just scrawled, “H E L P ” in the dirt on the side of my truck.
The walking was splendid. The morning was crisp and clear, plenty of night critters had left their
tracks in the soft sand along the road, and the horizon beckoned. I set a good, comfortable pace
of about three miles an hour, walking almost due North on Jackass Canyon Road. Straight ahead,
14 miles distant, lay Baker.

But the desert can play tricks on a person. Distances seem much less than they actually are
because there are so few familiar landmarks to use as comparisons. When I studied my map last
night, I judged I was three miles south of the junction with the Mojave Road. Nearly two hours
later I reached the junction, which meant it was over five miles.

My confident 3-mph pace was beginning to slow.

The junction was a decision point. I could keep going straight and walk nine miles in to Baker,
taking a slightly descending route. Or I could turn east on Mojave Road and head five miles
gradually uphill to Seventeen Mile Point. Here the 4WD road meets the nearest paved highway. I
could flag down a ride there. If not, then it would be another seven miles on foot to Baker.

I turned east. My legs were tired and my right thigh was beginning to cramp. A misstep sent a
sharp ache through my left knee, even though I had wrapped it before I left. Seventeen Mile
Point didn’t look so far away, but I knew better.

The road is straight as a surveyor’s line, plodding steadily uphill from Soda Lake. When the
Army used this as a wagon road back in the 1850’s, this 34-mile stretch between Soda Springs
and Marl Springs was grueling for horses and men. It took two long days to make the eastbound
uphill trek from one watering hole to the next. Seventeen Mile Point was half way.

Two ravens flew low over me, no doubt surprised to see a 2-legged out here, with neither burro
nor truck. Was this the same pair I saw yesterday, dancing with Coyote wind?

My pace slowed even more. I stopped for a rest, water, and raisins, but once I got going again it
took several yards of walking to work the stiffness out of my legs.

Finally I reached the point of the mountain and stumbled into the first shade I’ve seen in several
days. It wasn’t particularly hot – upper 60s – but still I was sweating from the exertion. Gingerly
I lowered myself to the ground and sprawled out dog-tired. I was still half a mile shy of the
Kelbaker Road, but I didn’t care. I needed a good rest. Finally I heaved myself up and trudged
the rest of the way out to the paved road.

It was 1 p.m. exactly when I reached the pavement. I’d covered ten miles in four hours. Not bad.
I sat down to wait for a northbound vehicle to take me in to Baker. Two SUVs passed in quick
succession, not even slowing to get a look. Ten minutes later, a San Bernardino County Sheriff
whizzed by going the other direction, saw me, and did a fast U-turn to slide to a stop in front of
me. I gave him the whole story and he offered me a ride to town.

“People won’t stop for hitch-hikers out in these parts,” he told me. I was gratified for the ride,
my first in the back of a police car. The very cramped surroundings left me feeling vaguely
guilty.
The deputy dropped me off in front of Baker Garage & Discount Parts. It was a large metal
building, six service bays, signs advertising “25-Hr Towing”, tune-ups, spare parts, and
“Mechanic On Duty” and “Next Time Stop at Baker Garage”.

On closer examination, I noticed that several of the bays were blocked by derelict cars, dusty
automotive equipment, and a trailer piled high with old rubber that could be called tires only in
the most academic sense. A dozen dead cars lined one side of the lot, too tired to move any
further, headlights hanging out like eyeballs. A tow truck slouched nearby, hood up, one flat tire.
The door marked PARTS DEPT was locked; two of the three windows were boarded up.

This did not look good.

Then again, the rest of the town didn’t look good, either. Spread out along Baker’s one
commercial street are 9 fast-food franchises, 8 gas stations, 4 restaurants, 3 motels, 2 places to
buy cheap imported rugs, 1 general store, a joint that sells beef jerky (and clam and octopus
jerky), The World’s Tallest Thermometer, and the Baker Garage. I wrote down the phone
number of the garage and wandered off down the street to the Mad Greek’s for lunch.

Later I called the garage. Disconnected. Glumly, I started walking back up the street. When I
passed the garage again I was surprised to see one of the service bay doors open, with a red
pickup truck parked there. Coming around the front, I saw three inches of hairy butt crack
smiling at me above a pair of sagging jeans. The owner was sprawled across the seat, blowing
out the cab with a high-pressure air hose.

When he extricated himself from that position, I asked if he was open for business. “Absolutely,”
he grinned, showing more potholes than porcelain.

I explained my predicament and asked if he could help. “Sure I can help. No problem. We’ll get
you fixed up. Just give me a few minutes to work it out.”

Then he returned to cleaning out the pickup.

For an hour I perched on the back of a partially disassembled truck and read my book while a
steady stream of locals and travelers came and went. I began to realize the fundamental truth of
the old phrase, “A lack of planning on your part does not constitute an emergency on my part.”

Finally the mechanic and a friend sauntered over. I told them both my story. Pulling out my topo
map of the Mojave, I marked an X where the truck had crapped out.

The mechanic and the friend studied the map for a while. A long while. I began to doubt that
either knew the area at all.

Finally the mechanic looked up and said, “So tell me straight, dude, is it off the pavement?”

I was incredulous. That’s what I had been telling him the whole time. That was the whole point
of needing a 4WD tow truck.
“Yes it’s off the pavement,” I replied, trying to keep a civil tone. “Ten miles off the pavement.
Jackass Canyon Road is a four-wheel drive road. You need a four-wheel-drive rig to retrieve my
Blazer. Do you have one?”

Looking down at his greasy hands, he muttered, “Well my wrecker’s broke in Las Vegas.” His
friend said that he didn’t think his dad’s truck could handle the job; I didn’t bother to ask what
kind of truck it was. After a moment, the mechanic’s face lightened and he grinned again. “Don’t
worry. We do this all the time. I just have to arrange for a truck.”

I asked how much this was likely to cost. He wasn’t sure, but at least $150. Which credit cards
did he accept, I asked. None, he replied. His credit card machine was broke, too.

Now I began to realize this was not going to be a quick snatch out of the desert. I asked about a
motel for the night. He recommended the “Polynesian” at the other end of town. He said I should
get set up there, then call him.

I walked down to the motel, forgetting that his business phone was disconnected.

From the outside, the Polynesian looked about in the same condition as the Garage. Fully half the
rooms had all their chairs, beds, mattresses, lamps, and night tables stacked out in the parking lot
like side-by-side lovers’ quarrels. Old TVs caked with dust; new TVs still in boxes already caked
with dust. A remodel, I was told by the desk clerk when I checked in, although it appeared to me
that the furnishings had long ago settled into place, wearing the required veneer of sand and
tiredness that everything – and everyone – seems to acquire out here.

The Polynesian was on the far side of sumptuous. Its looks alone rated a distant second to the
motel across the street. But I just couldn’t see myself installed at a place called the Bun Boy
Motel, stuck between the busy boulevard and the even busier freeway.

On entering my room, I got a quick reminder of a bowling alley. The room had obviously been a
double, but now it was a single with a yawning empty place where the second bed used to be. I
noticed light switches, lots of them, seemingly placed at random around the room. I checked
them all. Two switches didn’t control anything and two lights didn’t work. I tried the porch light
on my “semi-private veranda”, but it appeared not to work either. When I looked outside, I saw
why. The lamp fixture hung down several inches from the ceiling. A small owl had made a nest
among the wires. Standing on a chair, I examined the nest. It was empty.

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