Chapter Nine
Zero Dark Hundred
May 3, 2009—Sequoia to Tehachapi: This was an interesting day—with a surprise or two.
It’s weird to be writing this journal while on the trip. We’re partly on a trip, and partly writing about a trip (and right now I’m writing about writing about the trip), and it reminds me of a New Yorker cartoon showing people at a party. A guy with a video camera announces “OK, everybody. Now it’s time to watch the video of the first half of the party!”
That's how it is on this trip: we do stuff and then I write about it. Two other things to note: What we choose to do is influenced by how it will affect the journal (“Gotta camp by the snow 'cause it will make a killer photo for the journal!”). The other thing is that when I wake up at night, I can't get back to sleep because I'm working on composing the next entries in my head. The sentence that you’re reading right now was composed at 3:17 AM.
This day started at Zero-Dark-Hundred. I’ve finally arranged my life so that I can sleep as late as I want, and I struggle to sleep until 5 AM. In my teens and twenties, I could easily sleep 9-10 hours per night.
For one year, in grad school, I decided I just didn’t have time for all that silly sleeping stuff. I vowed that I would only sleep eight hours per night, and each night I’d set the alarm for eight hours from the time I went to bed. I’m pretty sure that policy resulted in permanent brain damage.
Just as the sun was starting to warm us up, it was time to pack up and continue on. When packed, the trunk of the Echo looks a can of sardines. Many owners of huge SUVs are surprised that we can fit all our camping, biking, and general items into such a small car, but it’s really not that difficult, especially if you can use the whole rear seat area. On trips made after this one, I hit upon the trick of removing the rear seat, which adds even more space.
The number one aggravation on a trip like this, without question, involves searching for things. If the sardine you want is at the bottom, or if you aren’t sure where it is, you’re in for some grief. It helps to have strict rules about where you put things, but “where the heck is the flashlight” moments are inevitable.
The route out of King's Canyon and through Sequoia was fantastic. This photo shows the road at the start of our descent from the mountains.
I kept thinking how much fun this descent would be on my bike. There is a macho cyclist rule: “Thou must not ride down the mountain unless thou hast ridden up the mountain.” But about halfway down, I couldn't take it anymore, macho rule or not. We pulled over and I got on the bike. Luckily Lena didn’t care to ride, so she drove the sag wagon.
We set a meet-up point, Lena drove ahead, and I got seven miles of free downhill riding. I didn't go wild—max speed was only 32 MPH, but I did go faster than the cars, and the road surface was creamy smooth. Yes, I’m a cheap gravity whore.
When we met up, we were in the desert—no more mountains. We had lunch at an LA-Yuppie place with a wonderful breeze blowing through the over-arching trees. Luckily, the crow poop landed on our table just before the omelet arrived.
After lunch, heading through the orange groves southeast of Visalia, we were ready for some showers, and I don’t mean the rain type. We asked Gunilla for the location of the closest community swimming pool. She found one just a few miles away, and gave us the phone number, but a quick call told us that the pool was closed on Sundays. Is it me, or is it strange to close a pool on Sunday, when kids are off from school?
Speaking of Gunilla, she has a sick sense of humor, and loves to suggest we drive on dirt roads. Sometimes she doesn't realize that two roads that are close to one another aren't necessarily connected. Another quirk is that she doesn't like U-turns. If you miss a turnoff, she'll take you a mile out of your way to get back on the correct route rather than suggest you make a U-turn and go to the best road. I think she was a lawyer in another life, and is concerned about liability.
We stocked up on groceries in Bakersfield, and filled up the gas tank. I was disappointed to find that with all the steep mountain driving and the loaded car, we'd only gotten 28 MPG. Normally on a trip we'll get over 40. Hopefully with flatter driving later we'll do better.
We checked out another pool in Arvin, CA (a few miles from Bakersfield), but it was also closed. We gave up on pools and made the left turn towards St. Louis. It was at this point that we started climbing out of the central valley towards the Tehachapi pass. These transitions are great: one minute you’re on pancake-flat, arrow-straight roads, and the next you’re climbing into the foothills, with the loaded Echo straining.
The weather was great with hefty clouds forming over the mountains. As we came to the exit for the town of Tehachapi, we saw a sign for “Indian Hill Campground,” and took the exit. After some searching, and a stop to get a phone book, we called and found out what I knew but had forgotten: “Campground” no longer means “campground.” It now means “RV Park.” As in “big parking lot with no tents allowed.”
So it was back to the freeway where we discovered a sign that said “Entrance ramp closed.” It was indeed coned off. This was a surprise, and there was no explanation or suggested alternate route. This is an area where it may be 20 miles between entrance ramps. But our road atlas showed another ramp three miles to the east, and we headed to that one.
To set the scene, I'll note that the wind was screaming. I'd guess the wind-speed was a steady 55 MPH from the west, with higher gusts.
We get to the next entrance, and find that it is also closed. We also notice that there are no cars on the freeway—something is going on here. We found out later that one of the wind turbines blew over onto the freeway. That gives you an idea of how hard it was blowing.
So we follow the traffic along a detour route through the hills. It's about 4 PM at this point, and Lena's keen eye picks out a sign for a Kern County campground. After eight miles of driving up some narrow and steep roads, we indeed found the Tehachapi Mountain Park. A big sign at the entrance told us “Do Not Cut on Trees,” and we figured we could live with that, so we pulled in and found a great spot. The place was deserted.
The wind was still howling, and much gustier here. There was no way to have any kind of cooking fire, so our dinner consisted of Goober PBJ sandwiches and raw vegetables with spray on salad dressing.
If you've seen video of tents pitched on Everest, that's what ours looked like. This was one of the only times I've actually staked down the tent. Being inside, it felt as though an ogre periodically grabbed it and shook it. It was cold also—colder than the site next to the snow.
The airbed was terrific and we slept in total comfort. The inside of the tent was cozy, with a faux-flannel sleeping bag spread over the mattress with our two down sleeping bags on top.
The mattress inflated in a minute or two with the four-D-cell pump. Because the pump (Peter the Pump) was so important (the airbed is not inflatable by mouth), we treated it like Monty Python’s holy hand grenade. It had its own box with ample padding, and it lived in the most protected area of the car.
The winds rocked us to sleep, and we woke refreshed.