The Strange Case of the Salton Sea

hello, stranger -

i finally took my trip out to San Diego again the weekend after the camping excursion.  the heat wave in the southwest had remained relentless, so it felt liberating to hop in the truck early on a Friday and point it in the direction of the coast.  i stopped in Yuma for a quick lunch and slipped into a dive bar in the downtown for a bottle of beer, but the bright heat outside was a killer, and sent me hurrying on my way before i could get any real feel for the place.  that was fine though - i was on a  timeline and had sniffed out enough to know where to start when I had a chance to return, and all i really wanted right then was to get out of the goddamned heat for a while.

this trip was more of a short reconnaissance mission. than anything else.  San Diego might be a great place to land if i decided to make a move - and if i could find the means.  what my eyes were really focused on though – or the back of my mind was, anyways – was a trip to the Salton Sea.  the strange place had first popped onto my radar screen a few months back, and had been growing in my mind ever since.  i don’t remember how, but the more i heard the more sure i became i needed to go there.  and now in recent weeks the interest only became stronger, although i'd be hard pressed to explain to anyone – let alone myself – exactly why.

the only thing i knew for sure was that it was a giant body of water out in the middle of the desert, in a patch of nowhere between interstate 8 and interstate 10.  it was man-made, but made by accident, when an over ambitious attempt at farm irrigation resulted in the breaking of a dam and for two years the Colorado river poured water into the desert.  this giant mistake would turn into a lake the size of a small sea, which led to giant investment opportunities for developers along the new waterfront resort area in the 50s and 60s.  but then the water began to dry up, and so did everything else.  what remained was the husk of a former paradise, an entire sea – literally – of abandoned homes and broken dreams, just left to its fate in a sun parched valley in the desert, just an hour or so north of route i’d taken at least a half dozen times.

so the original plan was to hit the Salton Sea on the way back from San Diego, taking a rural route north east through the mountains though the middle of nowhere to get to Salton City, where i'd booked a room for Monday night.  but the heatwave never broke like i’d hoped it would, and when i woke that morning and checked the weather i realized that any hope that i’d had of the hot temperatures retreating had just been wishful thinking.  the high that day was projected to be around 105°, with the humidity making it feel like 112.  no thank you.

i’d already learned my lesson about the heat, so i emailed the motel and told them i'd have to reschedule. and after a beautiful weekend of perfect weather and good food and deep conversation i reluctantly packed up and headed back down into the desert and made my way home.  and as i did i kept looking to the north as i passed through El Centro, and kept wondering about the place just an hour away that i was so hard pressed to see.  it made me think of another hotel room i'd stay in years ago – in Missouri, i think .  i had walked in and plopped down on the bed after a long day of driving and switched on the tv.  the screen was immediately filled with the face of Rush Limbaugh, in the middle of blabbing on incessantly.  “global warming is a hoax,” - he was saying - “created by the democrats to scare you into voting for them.”  i'd switched off the tv and and sat silence for a long while.  and while my mind drifted back from that moment – as i drove through the desert baking and temperatures that were an average of 12° hotter than normal – i could only wish that wherever that fat son-of-a-bitch was now it was 1000 times hotter than what he'd left us with.

***

it would be another two weeks before i’d have the opportunity to make it out to the Salton Sea. in the meantime i was using the momentum to catch up with work, organize things around the house, and just generally get life in order.  i had few obligations, and plenty of time to focus on the things i needed to in order to keep everything moving forward.  so you’d think i'd be ready and raring to go once the day finally came - but it didn't exactly pan out that way.

as time wore on and i'd hid myself away from the baking heat outdoors i could feel the momentum beginning to erode.  stress about money, stress about work, the family stuff, the direction of my life, the business opportunities that had collapsed, the effort, the struggle, the ceaseless worries and setbacks, the bad luck that seem to roll in like the tide – all those thoughts and more began to soak into my headspace, leaving me with little more than restless sleep and body aches to face the days as they wore on.

once again i was scheduled for the motel in Salton City on a Monday, and once again i was considering rescheduling.  i'd given myself all weekend to prepare for the trip, and had originally thought i'd spend the night in Yuma on Sunday so i wouldn't have such a haul in the morning.  but when Sunday came my funds and my energy were both too low to make it work, so i decided to spend the night at home, and get off to a proper start in the morning.

it's always best to pack the night before for any trip - there always seems to be a certain sense of gravity to overcome whenever taking off from anywhere, but especially when leaving the comforts of home.  but in this case i spent that night watching YouTube videos of the Salton Sea, which ranged in tenor from anywhere from the informative to the downright horrific.  one video referred to the smell from the sea as akin to a porta-potty on a hot day.  another focused on the toxic dust storms from the dried out sea bed, while the next alluded to the copious amounts of meth users in the area.  but regardless of what their focus, the backdrop of each was the same apocalyptic hellscape that looked better suited for a scene from the road warrior than a contemporary American town.

i found myself glued to the tv, and failed to pack that night.  that was completely fine with me - i wouldn't be away long and i wasn't going anywhere without stopping at a Walmart first to pick up some pepper spray and a dust mask.  i felt no need to stress about the early launch, because even though that was supposed to be the coolest day for a week on either end it was still going to be around 95° -  and i was not at all sure how much walking around i wanted to do in the heat of this strange land of hot farts and broken glass.

when i woke it was to a puddle of stress that i built up through the night.  memories of the past, regrets, lost opportunities, the ghost of things that never came to be – all of them haunting me through a dreamless night of darkness and sleep, with nothing but the echoes of the YouTube video i just watched until way too late in the evening.  why was i even doing this, was the question that kept tugging at me.  what was the strange pull to the Salton Sea?  i began to question if i was just fooling myself and wasting my time on some pointless adventure while the rest of the world kept spinning and getting to business.

and maybe i was.  but i sure as hell wasn't going to find the answers to that by sitting still and waiting for them to come to me.  so i packed up my bag, took a few minutes to tidy up the house, put some food out for the cats and headed out.  and the moment i did i began to feel better about it.

***

after i stopped at Walmart i swung by the local coffee shop to get a cup for the road.  there was a line and i had to wait, which I don't normally do.  there was also a girl i’d been interested in once a while back, sitting at a table and having a coffee meeting.  she had her professional game face on.  i know that look, but it was hard to distinguish from most of the other looks she had. i searched myself for my own pro-face, in case she noticed me and called me over.  i realized i couldn't find it, and smiled to myself when the idea struck me that maybe i didn't even have one anymore.

but i didn’t have the time or patience to wait in line and hear people order their mocha Java lattes with oat milk and sweetener please.  i needed jet fuel for the road, and figured any gas station coffee maker would do.  so i left and hit the road, and realized i’d need a little sustenance too.  i don’t normally go for fast food, but on a road trip it always seems to go hand-in-hand with the experience of any sort of long haul, and i had at least five hours of driving ahead.  so once i’d gotten comfortably out of city limits and moving traffic i pulled over at McDonald's and went inside.

when i walked in i looked up to where the menu should be, and there wasn't one.  it looked like it was covered by a black cloth.  there wasn't a register at the counter either.  just an employee, maybe in his late 60s or early 70s, standing in the empty space between, waiting to guide whatever confused customer happened to walk in through the door.  his name tag said Robert on it.

“what can i help you with?” - he asked politely, as he led me over to the self-service kiosk.

“ordering, i guess” - i said, as he tapped the screen and got my order started.  i hadn’t talked to anyone yet for the day, and found my voice coming out low and soft energy - like i was already exhausted by this procedure that hadn’t even started yet.

“i want a hot coffee to start,” - i told him - “two and two on the cream and sugars. i want one of them Mcgriddle things, the one with bacon.  and two sausage burritos, with extra ketchup packets.”

“any salsa?”

“fuck the salsa.”

i stood there and watched as he keyed it in for me, my own personal tutor in this level entry world of technological progress and efficiency.  time to trim the fat -  someone would say to Robert one day - as they explained how they needed to reduce payroll to make ends meet.  and just like everything he would have seen it coming, just as sure as the tide goes out.  and hopefully he’d have enough left in the tank to make ends meet, for long enough…  at his age Robert’s future hiring prospects didn’t seem particularly bright.

“can you tell how much i hate this?” - i asked him, while he was finishing up.

“i know, i know,” - he said in a soft voice, and then handed me my receipt.  it was in a tone of warmth and kindly knowingness, the way a teacher might sound after he broke up a schoolyard fight.  so i waited aside for a moment while he helped the next people through the door, and then grabbed my food when it came up and was gone.  it wasn't until miles later on that i realized we’d never even made eye contact again once he walked me over to the kiosk.

but fuck it – I thought as i made my way west.  there's a certain mixture of speed and miles that can fix any headspace, and i was far more interested in whatever secrets the Salton Sea had to spill out to me than anything that was in the rearview.

***

i stopped in Yuma for gas, then went down the road a ways to a liquor store and picked up a bottle of Jack Daniels and a bandanna.  neither of those would end up being used on the trip, but at the time it felt almost like I'd be an idiot to be caught without them.  so i unpacked my pepper spray, made myself comfortable and headed towards my destination.

my GPS told me to take the earlier exit for better speed, but i wanted to go through the exit that would put me through more of El Centro.  i didn't have any hopes about the place, but i just wanted to see it.  i’m aways sure there’s a myriad of things to see in places like that, with the right set of eyes and the time to do them in.  but i was on a mission and had already met my Robert for the trip, so besides a quick pit stop for gas and another coffee at a Circle K, i didn't have too much to report on my travels through El Centro and Brawley.

then i was up to the southern edge of the Salton Sea, and the road broke for the western side. i waited as i drove, eagerly anticipating some glimpse of the water.  but it was so low and flat and off in the distance i could hardly tell what i was looking at.  i had to rely on the map on my phone to assure me whether i was looking out into a mirage or not.  it eventually faded in to view and became part of the landscape, but it was hardly the momentous approach one has when they are coming across something like a sea.   that was not completely unexpected though, and it’s quiet appearance like an apparition in the distance seemed wholly appropriate somehow, as i turned off the main road and headed towards whatever i thought it was that was waiting for me.

**********

it was mid afternoon – and what I assumed was past check in time at the motel – when i pulled off the highway and into Salton City, along a parched stretch of desert road called Marina Drive.  despite my deeply ingrained mistrust of meeting people i almost always end up liking them as soon as i do.  this would easily end up being the case of the motel owner i was going to see, but i didn’t know that yet.  and as I hesitantly drove along the street I took in all the landscape had to offer - everything was spaced far apart with nothing but desert brush in between.  some of the homes were dilapidated beyond any hope of repair.  but i was relieved to see others that were lived in and looked well cared for, despite the overall propensity for an overflow of stuff in the yard.  it was the presence of the elementary school that most set my mind at ease though, and reassured me that i was in a functioning community.

as i drove along i don't think i saw a soul, either on the streets or even in another car.  the effect was eerie.  after a while i found my motel, but slowly drove past and continued on down the dead end that headed out towards the water.  there were two jetties with nothing but sand and brush in between and almost 100 yards beyond was the edge of the water. i parked and got out to go check out the vast and empty beach - or whatever word is best used to describe the desolate tract of earth where this unholy alliance of water and desert met.

there was no one in any direction, or even a bird in the sky. it was hot, flat and quiet – not even the sound of the wind really.  the sand was a mixture of loose dirt and it could've been pulverized fish bones for all i knew.  that's what the odor made me think of anyways, some sort of dried out organic matter which was at least a far cry better than what I had been prepared for.

as i made my way towards the waters edge the ground became more and more caked with a layer of crust that would crunch beneath each step.  the layer of muck that lay beneath that crust began to get deeper as i went, and i stopped about 15 yards away from the water.  that was far enough.  there were no waves even, just the slight swaying motion of the water that you might find in a large wash basin it's been jostled about.  this was the shoreline along the sea of nothingness i'd been aching to experience for months now, and now that i was here i wasn’t quite sure what to do with it.

i looked out across the quiet water for a long time before turning around to make my way back to firmer ground.  it wasn't a place of beauty in the traditional sense, but this was not a traditional trip - and there was something about the strange solitude of such a vast expanse of a place that had once been teaming with activity of all kinds that really set a hook in me, made me glad I had come to see it, even if i wasn’t entirely certain why yet.

***

when i got back to my truck i drove back over to the motel.  it was getting late in the afternoon and definitely past check in time, but the gate was locked and it didn't look like anyone was around – just a large dog barking at me through the chain-link fence.  i called the number on the email and left a message but began to get the distinct impression i’d been forgotten.  or that could have bene wishful thinking too - but no matter, it wasn’t up to me as i shrugged my shoulders and drove off.

this was indeed a very strange place, and visiting is one thing but spending the night is another one entirely.  i decided that i’d drive around the town to get a feel for it and take a few photos, and if i didn't hear back by the end of it i’d just drive off and find somewhere else to spend the night.  that's part of the beauty of the solo road trip - it’s easy to dip your toe in the weirdness, but it's just as easy to dip out too.

i was halfway up the sea before I heard back from Gary.  i heard the phone but let it go to voicemail as i was out tepidly exploring one of the communities to the north of Salton City with my camera.  Salton Sea Beach had a similar mixture of homes and dilapidated structures and extinct shoreline, but as i got closer to the water the intensity of some of the graffiti and other intentional carnage among the blight seemed to heighten to a fever pitch, and i'd become pretty dead set on getting the hell out of there before it got dark.

Gary could hear it in my voice when i called him back.  i was well on my way to Indio to try to find a hotel room somewhere by the freeway - preferably something a little more mainstream.  i'd already crossed the county line and immediately giant groves of lush, green date palms rolled past in orderly rows, and i was feeling a sense of ease about things as i put the strange land of dying, desert and decay behind me.

“oh sounds like you already are in Riverside County,” -  he said.  “it's a different speed up there."  he was extremely apologetic and explained how his wife had had a medical emergency and he forgot to bring my number with him to the hospital.  he offered to give me a room for the night for free if i wanted it, it wasn't about the money.  i told him i was pretty far up the road and wanted to see a little further and so probably not.  but he was extremely real and personable and told me to just let him know if i changed my mind, and when I got about 20 minutes up the road and into the urban sprawl of Coachella i did.

“man, I'm really glad you called back,” - was the first thing he said after answering the phone. i would've felt bad for at least a couple days.  i told him i was turning around but insisted to pay something for the room, and we haggled back-and-forth a bid on price – him trying to go lower and me higher.  eventually we agreed we’d just figure it out later, and i swung in to get a fried chicken sandwich from a drive-through and headed south, back to Imperial County.

***

it was a beautiful drive through the dusk of the desert, with a strange hue of the darkening sea blending in from the left side of the windshield.  but as i reached my exit the sun had sunk well behind the mountains in the west, and nightfall had begun, so i was eager to get to the motel. when i arrived one of Gary's sons – who I guessed to be about 12 – rolled open the gate so i could pull the truck into the property, and locked it up behind me.

Gary came out immediately, energetic and friendly, and glad to see me.  he was probably younger than me by a few years, bearded and with a ball cap on, and immediately extended me every courtesy he had available.  the only other vehicles in the lot were two work trucks which I guessed were what he used for his main gig, whatever that might be.  besides that I only knew that he had two sons and a wife, a tidy garden on a well kept property in the middle of nowhere, and that he was treating me like an old friend he hadn't seen in years.  i was immediately happy about my decision to come back.

he offered me my choice of rooms, and i picked the one with the patio.  it had two large beds, a tv and desk and breakfast table, in a large bathroom with a standup shower – which i imagined was a product of Gary's own handiwork.  it was all too much for me one person for such a short stay, but i was the only guest in the place and i needed the patio.

i felt it was intentional that there was no mention of money, and i figured i would let the issue lie for the moment. Gary was a talker and i didn't want to interrupt, but i knew he would have to step out again soon to go back to the hospital so i steered the conversation into the things to see on the trip, and the history behind them.  but he'd already pulled out a map and marked with a pen things all over the area, and set out to explain in detail about each one.  i'd hoped when i set out that i'd find someone who could steer me in the right direction when i got to the motel and Gary was just the guide I've been hoping for.

before he took off he asked me if i needed anything and i asked him if he had any beer.  the idea of rolling open the gate and driving through the dark streets of the strange town to get back to the interstate was not at all appealing to me.  he didn't, but he told me to wait a minute and came back with a bottle of red wine.

“that oughta do,” - i said.  when you return you should come over and join me for a class.  he told me if my lights were on he'd give my door a knock and hang out for a bit if he could.  i told him i hoped he would, and found myself pleasantly surprised that i meant it.

after he left i unpacked a little and checked out the DVDs he left me about the history of the area, but the DVD player wasn't working.  that was fine though – i appreciated the gesture and it would have been nice to have had a little more history about the place, but i didn't want to waste any time while i was actually there anyways, so i grabbed the bottle of wine and went out to the patio.

across the street from the patio was nothing but the broad swath of land where the desert slowly disappeared beneath the edge of the sea.  and beyond the sea – this vast expanse of water stretching out into the blackness of the desert night – there was nothing but the twinkling lights of a town on the opposite shore.  i had to check my map twice to make sure what i was looking at.  the only place it could be was Bombay Beach, but that did not jive with what i had come to understand about the place.  all the pictures i’d seen online gave me the impression of a place that was some chaotic mix of a Ghost Town, the remnants of a rave, a bombed out ghetto and an outdoor art installation.  now, looking at it across the water in the night, if I'd been told that those were the lights of a happy and fully functioning resort town i wouldn't have thought twice in believing it.

it was bizarre, but beautiful and definitely fitting for the night, which was completely still and quiet, except for the beats of Latino music being carried across the void from some far off neighbor, and the occasional clicking on and off of the air conditioner.  besides that though, nothing but a million stars above, a blood red moon like i'd never seen before, and the quiet listening to a silent sea.  and as i poured myself the wine and leaned a little further into that, i became more and more filled with the sense that i'd come to the right place.

so it took a slug of wine, and just breathed easy and sat very still for a while, letting the time just drift by.  no need to file anything now - just be quiet and listen.  they say that when you look into the abyss be prepared to have the abyss look back.  i wasn't exactly sure what i was looking at across those waters, but that advice never seemed more true.  the only thing i'd add is just to make sure you have a pen and paper handy when it does.

******

in the morning i awoke to a sense of lightness of being that i hadn't felt in a very long time.  the sun was brightening above the mountains across the sea, so i rolled out fo bed and grabbed my camera and went out to the shore area to try to catch the sunrise up behind them.  it was still and quiet and as peaceful as seen as i could have imagined.  there was an intense beauty in the solitude of the moment, which i couldn't seem to capture with my camera.  but my skills as a photographer are limited, and the image is never really the thing anyways, so i just meandered around for a while taking a few shots and happy to be in it.

when i got back to the room i made a pot of coffee that Gary had left for me and sat out on the patio for a long while.  there was no smell for the moment, and the day seemed indescribably fresh.  the garden and the pink flowers of the Bougainvillea were in full bloom, and hundreds of little birds swarmed to and from the palm trees and the power lines, with a concerted and fluid motion that reminded me of a school of fish.  the only sound on the air was the light melody of their chirping.  i knew that this little moment of paradise would eventually evaporate with the rising sun, but i was happy to have my time there to take it in, and felt like i understood something a little more about the people who remained and lived in this town, among the skeletons of yesterday’s dream.

besides the coffee, i had on the table with me my journal, a copy of Marcus Aurelius’s Meditations, and the empty bottle of wine.  i’d never heard Gary come back there night before, and i wish he had – if only to listen to the night with me and tell me if I was crazy or not.  after the neighbor’s music had shut off i’d noticed – in between bouts of the AC unit – the soft but unmistakable sound of what i could've sworn were waves crashing in the distance.  i knew that this was impossible, coming from that wide flat waveless shoreline where i had hardly seen a ripple before.  but there it was.  it may have been faint, but in my mind it was every bit is real as the stars above.  every time the AC unit clicked off i could hear the sea sending me the sounds of a shoreline from far away - maybe even long ago.  and in my ears it sounded just like home.

i'd never pondered the possibilities of a ghost sea before, but if ever there was a case to be made for one and i suppose this was it.  but regardless of what anyone would think about that, it was impossible to argue with the fact that this odd place was completely unique in its place in the world, and there would likely never be another one like it.  anyone at all familiar with the history of the sea knows of its accidental birth, the countless efforts to try to manipulate and control it, and the world of dashed hopes and broken dreams left behind as it made its inevitable retreat - a bizarre tale of futility and heartbreak too big to be ignored, but too easily forgotten.

i’d thought a lot about that vast expanse of untold sorrow as i sat there under the stars that night, and when i zoomed out to high above to see my own i could see what a small drop they were in all of it.  there's something about a giant body of water that always helps put things in perspective, but put it out in the desert and add the fact it is dying and that perspective has the potential to be magnified tenfold –  to the kind of eyes that are looking for it to be, anyways.

***

i left in midmorning but Gary was still asleep from what i assumed was a long night at the hospital.  i got to meet his wife briefly though, who I was relieved to see seemed all right, and his too charming boys who tended to the garden before heading to school.  they seemed like a very sweet family, tucked away out here in the middle of nowhere along the side of this dying sea, and i wondered what it would be like to grow up in town who's best days had vanished so drastically and all that was left to point towards the future were the apocalyptic remnants of days long gone.

i left the cash tucked in a note for Gary underneath the bottle of wine, which thanked him for his hospitality and the bottle of wine, and asked his pardon for leaving the full amount.  then i drove up the road to a community called Desert Shores to snap a couple of photos.  i felt self-conscious driving around and taking pictures in the wreckage of the tragic downfall of a town while people were still trying to live their lives in it, and tried to remain as un-intrusive as possible.  nevertheless, when i got pulled over by a sheriff’s deputy on the way back onto the highway i assumed that i’d aroused some kind of suspicion.

the officer asked me if i knew why he had pulled me over, and i told him i had no idea.  he told me i was guilty of not stopping completely at an intersection a couple of hundred yards back, and then doing it again after he got behind me before i got onto the highway.  that was bullshit – i stopped the way any normal human being would at a empty four-way stop in the desert, and i’d noticed when he got behind me and felt like if i came to a more complete stop before getting onto the empty highway it would've seemed like I was trying to hide something.

“are you a peace officer?,” - he asked. I told him no, but that I worked for one back in Arizona, that i was working for the election campaign for a sheriff there.  which technically was true, and quite frankly i wouldn't have been clever enough to make something like that if it wasn't.  he took my license and registration and looked me over, and went back to his vehicle, leaving me to wonder why he’d asked me that.

Imperial County is the second poorest county in CA, and my assumption was the traffic stops of people without interstate plates was probably a regular revenue generator for law enforcement.  but as he looked at my information i remembered that i ‘d left one of my magnetic bumper stickers on the back of my truck that i made for traveling – ones that make me seem like I'm a super cop lover for highway patrol, and others that make me look like i'm some kind of gun nut in case i need to park somewhere a little sketchy overnight.

in this case the bumper sticker on the rear was the American flag with the thin blue line.  but since the guy was taking so long i began to find myself worrying a little if he had been able to see it was just a magnet, and what i'd say if he walked back up to my window with it in his hand.  when he came back he just told me i was free to go, and to have a nice day – and so i did.

***

cruising around the top most part of the sea, i began to feel the rush of the road pumping through my veins again.  as i came back south along the eastern side i could see there would be a different vibe along this leg of the trip.  the road was single lane and promised to be even more desolate, judging by the amount of cars.  whereas the western side had communities still functioning in the husks of once booming resort developments, the eastern shore was much emptier, had only one town to speak of, and promised to be much weirder.

“are you looking for wildlife, or are you more into the funky, weird apocalyptic art stuff?” - asked the park ranger at the gate when i pulled into the state park.

“just kind of passing through and browsing a little i guess,” - i told him, scanning around and wondering what kind of wildlife he was talking about.  he was a friendly and enthusiastic enough of a guy and kept me there a few minutes to give me some pointers and his take on things.  he told me about a couple of YouTube videos that i should check out – parts of the Salton Sea had originally been used as a bombing range back in the 1940s, and apparently the Air Force had accidentally dropped a nuclear bomb into it during a test run, which he told me no one had found to this very day.

“alright,” - i said, and thanked him and went to the visitor center.  it was a much cleaner and more impressive facility than i'd been expecting, and judging by the huge empty parking lot i was ahead of the busy season by a few weeks.  it was still uncomfortably hot outside, and even a short walk to the beach was enough cause for a retreat from the powerful sun.

but hot or not, there was no overlooking the fact that the water line had gone down drastically in recent times.  the places that were once marked by blue on the map that Gary gave me were now nothing but dry lands.  inside the visitor's center the fish that once thrived here were now listed is all dead in big, bold red letters.  the picnic tables that once must have held prime real estate right next to the water now looked like they’d been abandoned in dirt lots.

the pity was that there was a different version of the story of this place that had never came to be.  from what i’d seen on tv and what Gary had said, the best way to restore the sea to its former glory was to build a canal down through Mexico to the sea of Cortez.  the Salton Sea sits more than two hundred feet below sea level, so gravity could pull the water all the way downhill and let it fill up again.  if this was done then the sea’s salination levels would return to healthy levels, wildlife could thrive, recreation and tourism would boom and the economy might thrive again.  and at the very least the dust storms that kicked up from the drying shoreline wouldn’t pose such a health hazard for the surrounding communities, and a potential catastrophe for the area in general.  all for the price of one B 12 bomber.

or so the theory went.  i was the furthest thing from knowledgeable on the matter, and am sure there’s a hundred arguments that could be made against it.  and i’m sure that recent discoveries of natural reserves of lithium beneath surface at the southern edge only complicated matters - especially when the interests of people like Elon Musk got involved.  but standing there, i could also see the bales of hay set out in staggered rows in the apparent attempt to mitigate wind damage, and to my eyes it looked like a cheap and pretty pathetic way for the government to pretend it was trying to do something that didn't seem to care about that much at all.

from everything i’d seen online and with Gary this seemed like nothing short of abject neglect, and i understood that frustration and sense of despair all too well.  where people were supposed to step up they more often than not were willing to find any excuse not to, and usually for the cheapest of reasons.  in my business dealings alone i felt like i'd fallen out of the bad buddy tree, and hit every branch on the way down.  and where the sea needed more water i needed a fresh supply of joy.  it was why i kept looking for a temporary fix out on the road, but I also knew there was a whole ocean of it out there somewhere for me, and if i was going to have a supply that lasted i’d need to roll up my sleeves and do some digging of my own.

which was not breaking news, by any stretch.  but if the sea had whispered any secrets it wanted shared with me from the night before, it was that the joy would come through the act of the digging itself, not from the results of whatever was to come at the end of it.  and that it was nothing short of the greatest of fortunes to have that opportunity resting in my own hands.

***

from the park i continued south down the lonely road along the eastern shoreline.  it was quiet and mostly empty as i went.  there were turnouts for beaches and campgrounds along the way, but after i turned into one it was clear that they’d be pretty much all the same, and the novelty of being in such a desolate place was beginning to wear off.  Gary's map had a number of markings for hikes and points of other interest, but the day was beginning to slip away so i headed straight for Bombay Beach.

when i turned into the long drive to the little town i slowed down and prepared myself to encounter one of the strangest, most post-apocalyptic settings I've ever seen. I was not to be disappointed. Bombay Beach is just a few square blocks laid out in the grid, but once you pass the tavern on the way in it's hard to overstate the extent of the dilapidation and decay.  most of the buildings look like they have endured a coordinated attack by World War II bombers and graffiti vandals, and the ones that don't are usually adorned in some sort of outdoor junk art ornaments.  i don't know if there's a record for disconcerting wreckage of a development, but per square foot this town has to have set it.

that seems, in fact, to be exactly the point.  all the crazy artwork only seems to amplify it, so much so that it's easy not to notice something that in any other setting would simply be impossible to miss.  the effect is to make the entire town seem like one giant installation piece of sorts, put together out of the ruins of a town, with nothing but broken junk, spray paint and creative abandon.  whatever the message might be i really wasn't sure, but it was definitely impressive – or at least, impossible not to leave an impression. i drove down the beach street, and along the giant berm of sand that was built to protect it from the water.  at one point the town had been devastated by flooding from the erratic sea, which could swell or shrink drastically, and was at the total mercy of larger weather patterns.  the berm was so high it was impossible to tell what was on the other side, but when i finally made my way out there i saw that the waterline was hundreds of yards away.

along the shoreline the art installations were a lot more obvious – a fish made out of junk, a shipwreck made of of pieces of wreck, a lemonade stand standing alone in the middle of nowhere, the unnerving use of the occasional mannequin.  along the streets and the buildings they were a little trickier to spot sometimes, on this canvas of mass dilapidation.  there’s an open lot full of junked out cars and a screen at the far end, with a nice retro sign that says Bombay Beach drive-in, and if i were to give anybody directions if they were going to visit i would tell them to look for that first. otherwise, it's pretty much just a free-for-all of weird ass shit - so choose your own adventure accordingly.

that sort of thing is not for everyone, of course, and it made me wonder about the 200 or so residents who actually live there.  despite everything there were people who called this place home, whether by choice are just not having the means to vacate along with the rest of the population.  i wondered if there was a certain type of person who would see the place as an opportunity and would choose to pick up and move so they could live in apocalyptic freakiness.  it all seemed insane to me, and hard to imagine.  but from what i saw there was a functioning store, bar, and church, so this little community obviously had more than it's fair share of stories and characters, and as i wrapped up my rolling photography session i was hoping to get a little sense of them.

when i got to the bar though i realized it was not to be.  at least not on this trip. It was filled pretty much exclusively with other visitors and passers-through, most of whom I'd seen out on the streets, drifting around with their cameras and gawking at the weirdness of it all, just like I was.  the bartender was obviously a local, but i had no desire to ask him a series of stupid questions.  whenever i travel i like to impose this little hassle on the locals as i can, and blend into the background naturally as much as possible.  this is – by my definition, anyways – the difference between a traveler and a tourist, and it is a distinction that can make or break the nature of the experience.

i was glad to see my fellow patrons at the bar seemed to feel pretty much the same way.  there were a couple of guys who were getting heavy into the photography, and wandered about taking pictures of all the dollar bills plastering the walls and clinging to the ceiling in testimony of all the visitors who wanted to leave their mark.  but on the barstools next to me were an older couple from Canada and another from California – people just passing through and happened to hear of this strange place along the way, and wanted to take a break from the day and find refuge from the heat and apocalyptic landscape in this little oasis of a bar and grill.

i ordered a bottle of beer and we chatted pleasantly about the weather, and the relentless heat wave that had been baking the region into submission.  where to go – was the main question question – if things kept heading in the direction they were.  the Canadians suggested British Columbia, but even there was going through some very noticeable shifts.  it all seemed so very far away and theoretical, but at the same time incredibly timely and appropriate, sitting there and peering out through the dim little window at the cars in the dirt lot outside, and beyond them to the edges of the disaster zone of a development that had once he held the promise of a paradise.

***

the food looked good though, and i would come to regret not ordering.  but Gary had suggested a place for lunch down in Niland, a small town about 20 miles down the road, and right on the way to Slab City - the next intended destination.  when i got there though i turned out to be the only one in the restaurant, and the owner sat in a chair a couple tables away, filling me in with whatever he thought to talk about.  maybe he thought he was doing me a favor.  he seemed nice enough but he was Mexican and spoke in a broken English that was difficult for me to understand, so mainly i just sat there and nodded politely as i got through my taco plate, in a hurry to get back on the road.

it was getting late in the afternoon, and now – with a full stomach – i was growing tired.  Slab City - which is self-described as the last free place - was something i definitely did not want to miss, but also a place I didn’t want to get caught after dark either.  originally built as a base by the army back in the 40’s there was nothing but the concrete slabs that the buildings used to rest on once they pulled out and abandoned the area.  the slabs ended up being a good place for hippies and wanders and other social outcasts to set up camp, and it turned into a sort of off-the-grid community.  over the decades it turned into its own place with its own way of doing things, most of which seemed as far removed the norms of standards society as you’re going to find anywhere around.

there was no doubt in my mind that there was a heavy assortment of crazy people and hard drugs to be found there, both of which i generally do my best to avoid under normal circumstances.  but there's also a giant work of art at the entrance to it, a mountain dwelling of sorts the one man had created with adobe and endless buckets of paint over the course of 30 years as a way of dedicating himself to the love of God.  Salvation Mountain – as it came to be known – eventually became recognized nationally as historic place, and regarded in the area as something simply had to be seen.

when i got there i saw the Canadian couple i’d met at the bar walking around and taking pictures.  there were about a half dozen other cars park next to theirs, with people doing the same.   i joined them, and wandered over to the wagon where a docent was set up to field questions.  but she didn't seem particularly enthusiastic about it, so i just smiled and walked past to the base of the mountain.  the entrance to the rooms inside were closed, and sections were closed off for repairs due to rain damage.  it didn't take away from the overall display of the immense amount of dedication and toil this one man had given in the creation of the place though, and it made me wonder what it must be like in someone's mind who has such a profound sense of faith that it eventually embodied their entire persona.

after taking a few more photos i walked over to the Canadian husband, who was examining the mountain from afar, shielding his eyes from the sun with his hand. “well, there it is,”  - I said. we’d talked briefly about visiting the mountain in the bar, and now we could both check it off our lists.

“yup,” - he said, with just a hint of a sigh. - “there it is.”

i nodded and wished him safe travels and made my way back to the truck.  there was a sign for Slab City and East Jesus, which i understood to be a large outdoor art installation. the owner of the restaurant said it was closed for some reason, but now that I was here i thought i'd drive over and check it out.  i drove up the dirt road past an assortment of trailers and hand-built shacks and other structures.  the community has a grill and the library and a venue called the range, where – according to YouTube – they have open mic nights on every Friday. but I didn't stop at anything, or even get out of the truck.  i just found my way to the entrance to East Jesus, and parked for a minute.

there was no one around, and i liked it that way.  the shadows were getting long, and i was feeling spent after a long couple of days.  i didn’t have there energy to be meeting anyone at the moment, least of all the type of person who made a place like this their home.  i'm sure there are a lot of fascinating people and stories in that place, but then again i've always been of the opinion that you can find something fascinating about just about anyone living anywhere – so long as you dig deep enough – and being part of some pseudo tribal fringe society out in the desert wasn't necessarily a requirement.

at least that's what i told myself at the moment, anyways.  regardless, i was done digging for the day.  there was a lot left on the map that Gary had given me that i didn't have time to get to, and i knew that if i got out to check out East Jesus now i would do so halfheartedly and erase any impetus to come back.  so instead i vowed to make a return trip, pointed in my truck back down the dirt road i'd come in on, and began my way back home.

***

on my way out of Slab City i passed an old shirtless man who was sunning himself in a beach chair by the front of his trailer.  he waved to me cheerfully as i went by, and i waved back.  he had been quite a ways off, but still there was something about his expression that i found heartening, and as i weaved my way out from the dirt roads to the world of paved streets again i felt a certainty that my promise to myself to come back to this place was not an empty one.

it would take well over an hour or so to make my way back to the highway.  and from there it was still a very long ride home, as darkness was setting in.  i thought maybe if i became too tired to drive i'd stop early in Yuma and treat myself to a hotel room.  but when the time came i just kept on going.  money was tight – as per usual – and i had a lunch meeting the next day, so those were both factors in not wanting to stop and get a room for the night.  but beneath that, deeper and on a more visceral level, there was a drive to get home and get things going in a way that’d been lacking for a while.

during my night out at the sea i’d heard a lot of answers whispered on the air, to some of the questions i’d carried with me and to some i didn't even know I had.  as I’d leafed through the pages of Meditations and let my time there soak in i'd begun to hear the timeless words echo from the past and really start to break through in a way they never had before.  my view on the issue of discipline that i hadn't even realize i've been struggling with had evolved to a point where it seem like it was no longer something to contend with and more like a resource or a gift to myself, that was available at any time through the perfect machinery of the universe.

so for a while anyways, it all felt so perfectly clear and still there as i drove along through the night, leaving that strange body of water and all the weirdness that surrounded it behind.  the windshield therapy had worked wonders again, and i felt a deep sense of calm and accomplishment as the truck guided through the desert night, taking me and whatever i'd taken away from the sea with it.  there was a profound sense that i had found a crucial piece to a puzzle that i hadn't even fully realized i was putting together, and that only with time would i find out the bigger picture that it made.

there was also a slight sense of melancholy in the air too though, that i could not quite put my finger on.  i'd felt a strange sense of empathy for the sea, and a sort of kinship with it that i don't think too many could fully relate to.  exhausted, abused, drained and depleted, with its glory days behind it and nothing but a series of broken promises and missed opportunities to show for the years ahead that could've been, i’d felt some kind of underlying urge to lay down on the ground and let out all my breath, and somehow reach out and take its hand to reassure it that at the very least all the troubles and quiet suffering it’d had to bear over the years were not for nothing, and that it would still all add up to something worthwhile in the end.

but that, of course, was impossible – and ridiculous to boot… the sea was just a body of water, shimmering out there in the dark and the moonlight, reflecting the twinkling little lights of a ghost town, out across an abyss of nothingness.  it did not know or care about the troubles around it, and the possibility would not occur to me until much later down the road that the hand i'd wanted taken might have actually been my own.