Description

The California desert is hideous and stunning at the same time. At first glance, it's barren, dusty, trashy, and unbearably hot. How the Sun follows one around like a stray dog. It's low in the sky too. Here the Sun is closer to the Earth than anywhere else; my guess is that it's no more than 500 feet above one's head. That's what it feels like at any rate. That ball of fire is relentless, nipping at your heels from about 7 - 7. At night, the sun leaves no residual warmth; it just disappears until the following day when it rises and repeats its horrendous behavior. 

The Earth here is a dull, soft, brown color - faded and exhausted from the Sun's daily beating. It's dry, and it's hard, and it's wrinkled - the skin of a sun-drenched leather hag. And while, at first glance, the desert appears to be a giant field of parched sand, a closer inspection reveals that plants actually grow here and there. Spindly creosote bushes are in no short supply, unfriendly cacti pepper the landscape, and the occasional but very welcome mesquite tree blesses the area with some much-needed shade. All the plants are a muted shade of green, fading into a muted tan background of sand quite seamlessly. You hardly know they're there. However, at one or two specific altitudes, the rare Joshua Tree pops up and takes over the landscape. What a funky desert denizen! This tree you notice; this tree you remember. It's not an actual tree; it's more of a Yucca gone wild, branching out this way and that way with no apparent rhyme or reason - never taller than 20 feet, never wider than 5. The Joshua Tree is pure magic. It'll definitely make you smile.

Where there are plants, there are animals, and this desert is no exception. These animals make-up the typical desert fauna - coyotes, rabbits, lizards, snakes, big horn sheep - you get the picture. Most of them are quite shy. Most of them avoid contact with humans; they keep to themselves. The ones that don't, the lizards and the rabbits, have turned my garden into their personal salad bar, brazenly mowing down my plants the minute my back is turned (and sometimes when it's not turned). It's really quite disheartening.

Of course there are people here too, hence, the trash. Here there are few rules and no HOAs. And some folks just go nuts. They get quite creative - in my humble opinion, stretching the boundaries of what we call "art". Many a yard is decorated with what could only be described as garbage - stuff that in any other region would make its way to the local landfill post haste. What kind of stuff? Stuff that can withstand the Sun's relentless stare - glass, concrete, and metal. Wood breaks down in this harsh environment, and organic matter dries up and blows away. So, desert art is characterized by broken glass, rusty metal, and cracked concrete. Desert art doesn't err on the side of subtlety. On the contrary, it's quite garish. Some folks might say it adds to the charm of the place. I am not one of those folks.

I am only here for the rocks - the beautiful, beautiful, beautiful rocks. The rocks that are characterized by perfect splitter cracks, forged from millennia of wind and water. The rocks that are blessed with sticky grainy textures bourn from a unique combination of quartz and potassium. How I love them! I love everything about them. I love the way they form a stunning backdrop to the otherwise dull, drab landscape. I love how they offer protective shade from the sun's burning omni-presence. I love how they provide a habitat to the more exotic desert animals, the sheep and the birds of prey, who, otherwise, might not live here.  But most of all, I love to climb them. I love the challenge, and I love the fear, and I love the comradery of the climb. So, much like the long-horned sheep and great-horned owl, were it not for those gorgeous, unique, desert rocks, I would never, ever come here.

The climb itself is a ritual, a communion with the sacred. It is a testament to patience, skill, control, and fortitude. It is mind over matter; it is great problem solving; it is a contest of will and concentration. There is nothing like it on Earth - nothing that I've discovered at any rate. The higher one climbs, the more the mundane world seems to disappear. Nothing matters but the climber and the rock - the unpaid bills don't matter; the failing relationships don't matter; the nagging insecurities don't matter. Every concern of the physical world melts away, and all that exists is the rock and you. And that's all that has ever and will ever exit. It is a strange and a beautiful freedom.

So, that's what I do here. I have no idea why anyone else would choose to come here, but some people don't come here by choice. Some people simply find themselves here, and that's how Randy got here. He found himself here. This place provides the backdrop for Randy's first memory, which is not a happy one, but, then again, few of Randy's memories are happy. His childhood was less than idyllic. In the harshness of this desert, he saw a reflection of his own life - a relentless struggle against an unforgiving environment. The sunburned days and freezing nights mirrored the extreme desperation he faced at home. 

In a dilapidated, abandoned, desert house, the 15-year-old Randy works to kindle a fire, combating the bitter cold of a dark desert night. He is lean and lanky. His face is pleasant with dark green piercing eyes, despite his unkempt sandy brown hair. Randy's clothes are old and soiled, acquired at a thrift store or from a donation box. 

The flickering light of a few candles barely illuminates the front room where he and his weary mother reside. On one side of the floor lies a haphazard stack of comic books, a collection of Shakespeare's plays, an assortment of packaged snacks, a weathered suitcase, and a jug of water. That's Randy's side of the room. On his mom's side of the room is a six pack of cheap beer and a broken crack pipe - nothing more.

Randy, slender and disheveled, completes the task of stoking the fire before immersing himself in the world of Shakespeare's words. His worn and dirty clothes coupled with his unkempt appearance reflect his unfortunate and miserable circumstances. At this moment, his mother Linda enters. She is black and blue from a recent beating. Randy regards her with pity and disdain, his filial affection fading fast - more of a duty now than anything else.

"We can't stay here. You know he'll find us. We have to leave town." Randy remarks, barely looking up from his book.

Linda, in complete denial remarks, "Of course we can. Look how nice and peaceful you made this place. It's our new home."

Randy, at his wit's end, but not wanting to jostle his mother's hair-trigger temper, answers calmly, "Mom, this is not a home, it's an abandoned shack. You have to go for help. He's going to find us. And he's going to kill you."

Linda, who never plans anything beyond her next hit of crack, retorts in a most self-assured tone, "Don't you worry, Honey. I have a plan."

Randy, rolling his eyes, "Mom, call the police."

"Why do you want me to do that, Baby? Do you want them to make us leave our nice comfortable home."

Randy, who sees life through a sober lens and has never been prone to delusion, breaks down, "Dammit Mom, this is not a home. It's a run-down desert shack where we are squatting. This man is crazy and violent, and he's going to kick your ass again. Go to the police, Mom. Please, you need help. I can't do it, Mom. I can't. I can only take care of myself."

Linda approaches Randy and sits beside him. She cracks open a can of beer and softly recites words she's said too many times before, "My little Baby, don't you worry. You always worry too much. Everything will work out fine."

Randy, reigning in his emotions replies, "I can't keep on going through this endless cycle with you and Frank, Mom. He's a bad man. Why can't you see that?"

Linda takes a long sip of her beer, staring into the dim firelight. The shadows cast on her face highlight the deep lines of worry and the bruises of abuse. She turns to Randy, her shame and broken dreams coming through her words.

"He just gets mad sometimes. It's my fault, well, our fault really. We do things that make him mad."

"Momma, Momma, Momma, please don't do this." Randy, frustrated, breaks down sobbing, "Please, Momma, please. Oh Mom, we have to get away from him."

Just then the sound of an approaching engine cuts through the silence of the still desert night. The car pulls up to the shack. Its bright headlights, illuminating the room.

"Come on, Momma. It's him; let's go." Randy tries to lift his weary Mom, but Linda, resigned to her fate, refuses to budge.  

With great haste, Randy gathers his few belongings and stuffs them into his suitcase.

Come on, Momma." He pleads.

"No, Baby. You go. I have to stay. I love him. He's all I have." 

Randy, adrenaline running through his young frame, races to the back of the shack. Just as he reaches the backdoor, Frank bursts in, reeking of alcohol and rage.

"You stupid bitch. Did you think I wouldn't find you?" He strikes her with all his might. She recoils, screaming in terror and pain. 

"Where's that worthless son of yours?" Frank snarls. 

"Leave him out of this, Frank." Linda urges.

"Where is that little Bastard?" Frank takes Linda by her frail shoulders, shaking her, as if that would rattle a confession out of her.

Randy, his heart pounding in his chest, slips out the backdoor and runs into the pitch-black night. The sound of the chaos inside becoming more and more distant with each step.

It was then, Randy decided he could never return to that life. He ran, and he ran, and he ran. The California desert, both hideous and stunning, felt like Heaven under his feet.

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