wandercreature

How often do you find yourself compelled to break free? To untether the bounds between yourself and the threads of civilization, if only for a short while. This deep wish, was something that had been repeatedly refrained to me via E, as she grew more and more busy with her new responsibilities at work, alongside endless tasks maintaining a home almost three years in the tending. Even when besieged by an intense bout with the flu, there she was, peering at photographs of her intended destination. A place of often deep isolation, and desolation. A realm often seen as far too inhospitable for life to properly survive. A place who’s very name implies the end of everything we know and hold dear. And yet this place, is in many ways not far at all for both of us; Death Valley National Park.

After a few dozen conversations regarding this hypothetical trip to the badlands, it was quickly becoming apparent that this was to be the single most ambitious trek for some reliable old wheels. Enter E’s 1995 Honda CR-V. Often taking refuge in her garage, and only really used for particular tasks in lieu of Metro and a bicycle, this little four wheeler has granted my buddy over twenty years of dependable transport. A beautiful tin can on wheels, at last called upon for an epic journey. And with only a few precautions taken, there was always a mild curiosity as to how she would handle the four hour journey into the fringe. As it turns out, she was more than up to the task with a full tank, some well filled tires, and a pat of promise. We were rocketing toward our destination with all the resolve of your classic Yesh Productions call of c'est la vie, making it through a few miles of freeway under repair complete with traffic crawl.

We also encountered a number of oddball stops including Barstow, where their visitor’s center is smack in the center of a largely quiet but significant outlet store mall. Further into the desert, we also gazed in bemused, and occasionally melancholic manners at remnants of California’s promise and betrayal with stops such as Baker, which still simmered with an air of real estate gone sour. Many vintage motels, covered in dust as reminders of a time when small business owners saw potential riches as a rest stop, only to become casualties to the advent of freeways and strip malls. Scattered along the path were signs to even more ghost towns. Promise of more of the state’s checkered history along what is among some of the most unforgiving desert land this side of the Mojave. From real estate swindlers to religious charlatans claiming the term ZzyzX, was the last word in the english dictionary miles of abandoned structures, and abandoned mining establishments litter the path toward oblivion. Echoes of lives and loves lost on the boulevard of dreams.

Upon passing Death Valley junction, which in itself featured an aged opera house, and a dozen of other beautifully weathered establishments, functioned as something of a warm reminder of what we would be leaving within a few short miles. Sure, there were some expected sights such as the visitor’s center, I found myself taken aback by what looked to be a resort under construction as well as a mobile home community within the park! Not something I envisioned for sure. These were sights that implied to me a resilience, and in some manners denial of the present surroundings. Having grown up in places where temperatures of 120 tend to happen in the dead of summer, this seemed to be flirting with sun exposed overkill.

And yet, the people still come.

We soon reach the fabled Zabriskie Point, and almost instantly, we are hit by a lingering aura of cultures lost. Amongst almost punishing 70-plus mile per hour winds, the once thriving mining colony now felt like a place where ghosts of the past continued to commiserate about the future they yearned for. Be it money to move their families to America, or to help reshape America by way of countercultural revolution. The winding ascension alone grants an almost monastic majesty to a simple view of endless rock formations into near infinity. In fact, we initially eschewed the well-paved walk upward for a more natural looking rock laden trailhead, which led us into a seemingly endless maze of canyons. At once foreboding, yet strangely inviting, the both of us denied ourselves the expedition as clouds began to rapidly cover the sun. Moments later, we chose to at last venture up the snake path to get a better glimpse of what must have been awe inspiring to Italian auteur, Michael Antonioni.

Spurred on by the realization of diminishing daylight, we soon leapt back into the vehicle, and darted toward Artist’s Palette, where our journey took a turn into the magically surreal. A rocky range composed of colorful giant rock formations borne from great volcanic activity roughly 5 million years ago. A grand rabble of cemented gravel, debris, and playa, the strangely toned array looks not unlike a rocky sculpture attempting to recapture the disorienting funhouse hue scheme of spumoni. Signs nearby let us in on lingering while viewing the formation as the sun continued downward, which allows the eyes to capture new and even more unusual color patterns from the solidified mica. The peak from which we viewed this, in itself was a hard contrasting grey, and littered with smaller broken pieces of volcanic rock, further evidence of a cataclysmic event long ago. I took a few shots of the surrounding area, and it never stopped feeling like a combination of a most violent natural event, and the most psychedelic landscapes this side of a vintage Disney attraction. An eye-befuddling gift from the Miocene era.

But again, we had to carry on with purpose as the clouds above guaranteed a troubling journey out of the park. And with no stars or moon to help guide us, it was time to venture deep into the legendary Badwater Basin; the other planet on Earth. Upon finding the parking spot for the almost mythical dried sea, we stepped out onto the wooden platform, heeded the signs reminding everyone to stay on the path (the basin is a long, mostly dried aquatic environment that is surrounded by tons upon tons of salted, partially watered pockets that must not be disturbed in the hopes of a return) while we wandered deeper and deeper into what would lead to the lowest elevation in North America. This was a void. A true, natural void welcomed us as we venture further and further into what felt like a hike into a netherworld realm where humans are simply never meant to journey lest they had a gift for the serpent that lay at the belly of the sea. Sure, we saw a few families ahead of us. And we even glimpsed a model and photographer, indignantly working off the path. Despite this, there was a wholly unearthly feel the entire near mile walk toward the center. Taking a quick turn back, I could see the parking lot looking like no more than a speck through my glasses. And above, the clouds had enveloped enough of the sunlight, as to be covered in a silken sheet of almost martian pink. We were within the gargantuan maw of a god, and without proper illumination.

For my impressions of this unique landscape in sound form, listen here..

Knowing we had but a few minutes left of sunlight, we made it to the center just in time to see teens and family members running past us, toward the parking lot. Even so, we began to stroll back at a slightly quicker pace than the way we had arrived. More kids running past us. Family members, aware of the situation, reminding me of a village ritual. It was a town that feared the coming of night, and we were walking, unsure whether or not we too should begin to sprint toward the car.

And this is where a pair of young Japanese men came our way, walking toward the sea despite the dying of the sky, “Excuse me. Do you know how to drive from here to Vegas?” We tried to explain that the best way was back the way they came. E, being the kind soul she is offered to show them our homemade paper map. But we had to return to the car to show them. One of the two men, seemed to be more eager to explore the basin than head back with us. And immediately, concern began to form via my face muscles. These two guys were about to go it alone in a deep dry sea, with no real flashlights apparent, and no map to get themselves out of the park. They politely declined our map, and chose to move on. We waved good luck after reminding them to head out the way they came, and continued to the CR-V. Mere yards from the array of cars, the lack of light was now so pronounced, that a simple break light from a departing vehicle, now resembled an intense flame. We were now leaving the lair of the old ones, wondering if anyone left ever made it to Vegas alive.

Needless to say, we took a bit longer than expected to hit the road home. And the ensuing drive out of Death Valley as winds began to pick up, was every bit as disconcerting as I had anticipated. It was so dark along those roads that it felt like being on the inside of a squash ball. Rarely did we ever encounter any other drivers along the way. And five feet beyond the car’s front or back felt like a void, simply waiting to swallow anyone up who dared walk beyond. But it ultimately wasn’t too long before we were welcomed by the lights of the earlier mentioned ghost stops. Strangely warm reminders of the civilization that was ready to welcome us back should we be willing to return.

And return we did.

But still, there is something to be said about stopping by the end of the world. Even if it were for a mere series of whistle stops. The other side certainly has plenty of room for souls who are willing to venture inward.

Dub it a bug. A sudden addiction. Call it what you will, but the impulse to step beyond the confines of my usual surroundings has been a powerful force over the last few months. Chock it up to a combination of the internet, friends from all over, and an unrelenting eagerness to find myself a little lost on a budget. Last weekend's little voyage up north was in many ways something that has been brewing in my mind for over a year now. And to at last be on the ground, surrounded by souls both superficial and radical so closely merged, the memories of those three-plus days continue to reverberate like the seemingly endless end chorus of a favorite song.

Upon arrival, it became readily apparent that taking a Lyft from my bus stop to the hotel I had reservations for, was a lesser option to walking. Considering that the temperature in town was near twenty degrees lower than that of home, it would have been the perfect way to discover the heart of the city without many barriers. And despite not doing nearly as much research as I probably should have, The Mosser turned out to be just the right kind of home base for my journey into the great bay city. Sure, I was surrounded by the likes of Old Navy, Walgreens, every other major capitalistic name under the sun, lauded by armies of the hopelessly safe, but despite that, there remains a wildness, just waiting to tear from the seams of such an illusory paint job. And the hotel itself offered a tactile retro air, complete with built-in music studio to add to that all so hip air. (No, I never used it.)

Needless to say, I was kind of bowled over. Not sure about the basin over carpet, but..

Before heading into town for the evening, it took me at least two hours to properly gather my bearings by attempting meditation. In the core center of San Francisco. Yes, I'm aware that this is a ridiculous notion. Either way, it seemed to have worked, because I was good and refreshed enough to meet my guide in The Mission.

Of course, this meant boarding either the notorious BART or Muni public transit services in order to get there. I had long heard tale from friends and acquaintances. And since most of my past journeys to the bay, took place in the passenger's seat of someone else's car, this was for a moment, a pretty daunting footnote. Their kiosks aren't that intuitive, and require a few more leaps than I'm used to in regards to operating them. Sure, I could have asked someone. BUT IT's POWELL STATION. Ahem. Sorry. As much progress as I may have made as an L.A. resident, I will likely always be a small town boy at heart, and there are just some things a guy simply must figure out for himself. (Okay, next time I'll take the time to ask. It shouldn't be to tough.)Ten minutes later, it all suddenly made sense, and I was at last a few short stops away from the Mission district, where a meetup with a friend who knew the area, even as it grew dark made for a sweet evening of veggie-centric Japanese food and conversation. And we could hear each other well considering that so many restaurants seemed to be doubling up in tables for patrons that evening.

Cha-Ya, was a happy, surprisingly quiet diversion from all the bustle of The Mission.

That evening, was in no way a portent to what was to become of Saturday. Beginning with some surprise water/phone drama, leading to my using talk-to-text options for email and such while my screen is occasionally going berserk. And yet despite this, venturing out to Mission and partaking of what I had never tried before; a San Francisco take on the vegetarian burrito, followed by a spirited journey into Golden Gate Park. Sadly, we were unable to take a deeper look into the park's Conservatory Of Flowers, but the sheer breadth of the park, and the impressive mass of humans inhabiting it was impressive enough. After walking through what only felt like a fifth of the park, it wasn't hard to feel intimidated by it. But considering that my home hundreds of miles away was suffering one of its hottest days on record, the registered 69 degrees with a breeze all around us, was a welcome contrast.

Hours into this, my guide then chose to lead us to a favorite haunt. I had long heard of the fabled, Green Apple Books down on Clement. But it was no preparation for the mountain of literary treasure the store continues to offer. Seeing as how my guide is an established local poet and published writer, we spent a majority of our time at Green Apple, poring over the poetry section, which is impressive to say the least. Discovering new voices, as well as rediscovering ones long neglected were a major part of my visit. But among the more fun highlights, the one that stood out the most came while attempting to read aloud some works. Three short poems in, and a neighboring veteran goth came over to me with a book. Centered on one woman's voyage in the wake of numerous lovers via her motorcycle traveler's life. Wishing I made note of the author, the prose was rife with fresh anger, and even a tinge of sadness that the men who would embrace such a romantic lifestyle, wouldn't see past their own expectations this one person's wish to be more than an adornment. The book was both flirting with rage and probably could only be seen as camp fodder at this point. But it was a fun, eye-opening moment from a complete stranger all the same.

Soon after, we hopped a Muni to get us back toward Nob Hill, where I had a chance to experience the Gothic Revival awe of Grace Cathedral, which is not only known for its astonishing architecture and relief works upon it's huge doors, but also two truly haunting and revered labyrinths. The well-regarded Doors of Paradise, further grant this structure a knowing sense of the tales that bind so many together. Featuring almost frighteningly detailed recreations of Cain and Abel, and of course Adam & Eve. These doors which are replicas of Lorenzo Ghibteri's work that continues to adorn the doors of the Baptistry of Florence Cathedral, Italy.

The celebrated labyrinths, depicting humankind's endless journey to ascension is an interactive, and in many ways meditative series of circular, one way mazes that eloquently symbolize our collective journeys, experiencing and gathering experience, whilst meeting new faces along the way. (reinforced by the design of the mazes, as it becomes increasingly tricky not to walk face to face almost toward fellow maze walkers) The paths are in a way so intricate, that it almost forces one to pace themselves. There are no speed walks through these walkways, and it is by design. I have heard that once a month, there are evening candlelight walks of the mazes, as well as weekly Peace walks. A part of me is very curious about such events. As of this visit though, the final time for my initial journey was roughly sixteen minutes to get from one end to the other.

Grace Cathedral's labyrinths, are a truly fascinating, relaxing journey to behold.

Largely pooped from all this running about town, it was drinks and dinner back in downtown. Something I may never try again knowing full well more warm and humble options exist elsewhere. Nice dark beer though.

Sunday, while beginning a little later than previous, wound up becoming what continues to replay endlessly a week later in my mind. Journeying via the BART, through the notoriously loud Transbay Tube, is an unforgettable first experience. Witnessing decibels only rivaled by local construction, a frightening accident, or a Merzbow concert, the train journey between the San Francisco Peninsula and Yerba Linda, is one to be fully experienced to be properly understood.

Upon arriving in Oakland, it was quite apparent that the overall vibe of what I have known to be San Francisco, kind of ends the moment we take that train underwater. Coming out the other end, we are in an environment much more pointed, stark, and strangely L.A.-like in some respects. A refreshing warts-and-all counterpoint to what has become closer to a neglected theme park. A few blocks of walking away from our stop, emerged something I had only heard about, seen a few images online, and wondered how this even existed...

That's right..We entered the Oakland community's one and only New Parkway.

The New Parkway: a movie theater experience unlike I have ever witnessed.

A truly astonishing oasis in the seemingly endless deserts of film houses across this great nation; The New Parkway, is an independent pizza joint/movie house/DIY rumpus room where we could see a movie, have a meal served to our seats, and watch something I never thought I could for a dirt cheap ticket. Not only was I taken aback by all the amazing repurposed seating, the oddball as hell pre-show shorts, and the totally laid back attitude of everyone around us, but the fact that we could watch the latest Twin Peaks on a large screen was a moviegoing experience on par with the best screening experiences I have ever been fortunate enough to remember. (Btw- I will be sharing thoughts on last week's installment, promise.)

Simply unreal.

I could go here for the rest of my life..

We could also recall further adventures in Mission, spending time just absorbing the effervescent vibe of Dolores Park, overlooking the city. Or how about the other cafes and food joints we hit along the way. But a part of me feels like the biggest impressions I walked away by staying in the Bay Area for an entire weekend, were that of a greater cross-section of California life, complete with every contrast under the sun, all vying for the same headspace. It's perhaps a little too easy with that amount of dwindling space to understand just how important it is for dialogue to persist. And yes, this includes actually listening to the other party. Sometimes, the rowdy spirit of a nation can at times find itself drowning out its own message. And as of right now, it to me feels more important than ever that we not only raise visibility levels upon those with less, but on thoughts that otherwise might get missed while the sky above finds itself littered with rocks and shit hurling back and forth at dozens of miles per hour. Like any place of ideas, there is always a danger of calcifying in your own ideals. And while I do see a great city, bound together by a sense of impending freedom and liberty, I also see potential for every generation to recoil when things grow too heated.

As americans, we require the wiggle room, the ears, and the patience that becomes an endless resolve. And that means keeping the muscles tender, no matter where we go. I'm just hoping that in potential future visits, there is more to learn beyond the myth of San Francisco. I wish to better befriend San Francisco, the place, and its people in it.

Roundabout Tours Of Hell: Death Valley In A Day

More San Fran Than I'm Used To..