I’m going camping this weekend, with my friend, Devo, on the eastern side of California.  We're bringing our dual-sport motorcycles, so vroom, vroom, fun ahead!  He can’t leave until after 5:00 Friday, but I’d like to leave earlier, so we leave separately.

I think I left Friday morning, or was it Thursday night?

Uh….

I set up camp at my favorite spot, not to be revealed to the internet community because too much usage would screw it up. It’s a nice site, among a low juniper forest, with a 270 degree view of a giant collapsed caldera and its surrounding ranges. A great hot spring bubbles away nearby, providing hot soaks for tired muscles.  My truck and trailer tuck in nicely between some trees out of sight of the main road, a couple hundred feet distant. I take the time to block the entrance with some rocks anyway, to slow visitors down. I generally try to let people know that someone is camped here who doesn’t want visitors, but I don’t like my gear being easily visible. I’m not anti-social; I just don’t like strangers walking through my camp.

I next had a short soak in the hot spring with an eclectic mix of people. That’s one thing I like about hot springs. Sometimes you end up sharing a really small tub with some very interesting people. Today’s soak featured an older couple from Hesperia, an x-gen mathematician/physicist of some kind or another, and an apparently very wealthy brother and sister here on their annual family vacation. The last pair had come to the springs to get away from their more sedate family members and ingest various recreational substances. The older couple were familiar with another favorite place of mine, Deep Creek, and mentioned they had a web site involving it. They gave me the URL, but I burned a few too many brain cells that weekend, including the ones holding short term memory.

So there I am, Friday evening, sitting on a rock overlooking Big Warm Creek and the caldera area. The shadows are long, as the sun is about to set behind the Sierras. Devo is late, and I know that things will only get worse once the sun sets; Devo has really poor night vision. I know he’s had some troubles with directions in the past, but I spent a lot of time creating a great map for him. I consider hopping on my bike (1985 Honda 350 AXLE) and looking for him, but the local road network is fairly extensive, with many different routes possible to our camp. I’d rather stay up high, in camp, from where I can see a fair amount of the incoming roads or be there to guide him past the rock barrier and into our hidden site.

Now he’s at least an hour late, and I figure he forgot to bring the map. A couple cars have come by in the two hours or so that I’ve been waiting, causing me to run for the binoculars or a different vantage point, but none were Devo. The occasional dump truck passes, headed to or from the nearby chalk mine. At least it is a nice spot to be waiting for someone.

Headlights appear in the distance, on the wrong road, and it’s so dark that I can’t make out the car’s make or color even. I listen for a while, figuring he might get desperate and honk his horn or something, but finally wish him good luck and go make dinner.

Devo finally showed up a little bit later. I’d forgotten he was also color blind, so he had problems with the map. (Devo, if you’re reading this, don’t be insulted, I was just trying to give you an excuse for your shitty map-reading abilities.) The headlights I’d seen earlier were his, and it turns out he’d been driving around, searching for camp, for several hours prior to then.

We hiked down the hill to the hot spring later that evening. A younger couple showed up a little bit later and politely asked if we minded sharing the tub. They turn out to be quite pleasant company, from the Bay area, I think. After an hour or so, a couple of assholes show up, so the nice people decided to head on to another spring.

These guys really are jerks, too. They pull up in a big cloud of dust, and immediately put a couple stereo speakers on the roof of their truck, then crank up some tunes I’m not familiar with. Kind of discordant, funky stuff, and maybe ok if the guy playing it wasn’t such an asshole and it wasn’t so LOUD! I mean, I’ve been known to crank the tunes until they’re echoing off the canyon walls, but not when anybody else is around.

So the driver and his passenger join Devo and I in the tub. The day’s earlier visitors are gone, except for the Hesperia couple who made the mistake of setting up their multi-room condominium tent not 50’ from the tub. They’ve apparently retired for the night, because they’re camped so close that we could hear them rustling around in the tent. The jerk doesn’t like their proximity, so after greeting us and exchanging normal small talk, he starts yelling at the tent. "Don’t camp here! Fucken idiots, locals only! Get out, get out! We live here, you don’t, go away!" and similar bullshit for an amazingly long time. He finally wound down after getting no reaction from the tent. I’ve got to share his sentiments, to some degree. I mean, millions of acres of wilderness in California, and you have to camp 50’ away from us? And this in a sensitive meadow area? But I wouldn’t have screamed at them. It was truly a bizarre situation, how quick he flashed from "How ya doin?" small talk to berserk rage.

Things are quiet for a while, and I figure this guy is tweaked out on crystal meth, so maybe I’ll just keep things mellow. We continue to chat like nothing has happened, during the course of which I learn the music is by Widespread Panic. Someone later describes them as a "wannabe East Coast group with a cult following made up of lost Deadheads; most people I’ve met who likes them is a real loser." I don’t know, but I don’t claim to be very hip.

After some more "locals rule, tourists drool" kind of talk, I’ve had enough bad attitude and bad music, so Devo and I hike back up the hill to camp. I’m tired and could easily go to sleep, but it’s still somewhat early, so when Devo suggests a night ride, I heartily agree. Most of this ride is a blur. I remember the goal was to check out another group of springs a few miles away, but I can’t remember the results. It’s butt-cold outside, but I have the right gear, so I’m nice and toasty despite the near-zero (sub-zero with windchill?) temperatures. I’m nice and loose, so I float over the gravel in a semi-detached state. This makes for a great experience, speeding along, visibility and concentration limited to the narrow beam of light in front of my bike. I know it’s freezing, because some flesh is exposed, but I’m comfortably warm, almost like laying in bed in my down comforter and mattress combo, watching the road race by.

We eventually make it back to camp, where I withdraw to my truck with a beer and a book, while Devo sits and drinks silver bullets under a bright moon.

Slept in. Devo woke up too fucken early. Having to go to the bathroom eventually drives me out of my sleeping bag. I find my usual nice view to take care of business, then return to camp and get coffee going first. When that’s done, I pour myself a big mug, add Irish crème, then take the cup and my chair and find a nice spot overlooking the valley. This is another "moments like this are why I go camping" moment. Chemical-induced euphoria is pretty cool first thing in the morning. I close my eyes and listen to see how many different sounds I can hear. I take great lungfuls of air, savoring the different taste to it. Who needs TV? For a different channel, I scope out the Sierra face, picking out routes I’d use to the top of different peaks.  Or I try to pick out/explain different geological features.  I wish I could sketch the mountains like the old-timers....

After my coffee is gone, I pack an easy breakfast and hike down to the spring. I have it to myself this morning, reveling in the sights, sounds, and smells around me. Sparrows from a nearby colony jet by overhead. A red-winged blackbird hides in the reeds nearby. Devo comes down eventually, but it’s a short soak as we’re ready to ride. Today’s schedule keeps us close to camp. I’d like to putt around the hills in the immediate vicinity of camp, and also hit the summit of Bald Mountain, about 10 miles away.

We ride west, and I try a new shortcut which turns out not to be. Back on the desired road, we continue through the sagebrush another couple of miles to the north side of Warm Creek, immediately above the main pools. But we’re not here to soak, we’re looking for treasure. We cut cross-country, along a fenceline for a short distance, then hang a sharp turn and go right to the stash. Devo pulls a shovel out of his backpack, and I show him where to dig. With the first shovelful of dirt, we see the yellow ribbon we used to mark this cache. Careful digging by hand reveals a bag and inside the bag, a bottle of 1995 merlot, miraculously intact.

I pack the wine in my backpack for later consumption, while Devo replaces it with a bottle of harder stuff, Jack Daniels. So much for a nice bottle of wine in a hot spring. Next time it’ll be shots of JD! WWJD!!! (We Want Jack Daniels, silly, not What Would Jesus Do.)

Back on the bikes again, we ride through Little Antelope Valley, then traverse the slope on the valley’s western side. I bring Devo up a really sandy, rutted road, maybe 1/8 mile long and 200’ high. I have a hell of a time with it near the top, slipping all over the road in my efforts to get through the loose stuff. Devo passes me partway up, clearly in control and enjoying my spectacle. Bastard.  He's still laughing when I finally reach the top.

I take a detour to show Devo the site of the exploratory drilling rig. If you’re into big, man-made things in incongruous settings, it’s pretty cool.

From there we take a series of side roads that get smaller and smaller, until we’re on single track high above the drill. I’ve ridden here before, so only have minor problems finding the way through this maze. Someone’s been cutting cross country on a dirt bike recently (looks like a whole bunch of someones, actually), so things are more confusing than normal. Eventually the trail disappears, and we park the bikes and start hiking. This ridge has a great view, and is scattered with all kinds of obsidian, so it’s really a nice spot to be walking. We soon pass what I call the "glass cities" - ant hills on the ridge top made out of small obsidian beads. There’s apparently a certain size pebble beyond which the ants can’t lift, so there’s hundreds (thousands?) of obsidian pebbles lying in circles around the ant holes. The circles strike me as being smaller this time, so I wonder if someone came by and snagged the beads for their fish tank or something. Or maybe it’s a seasonal effect?

(Hmm, I'm thinking my memory of the sequence of events is off.  These pictures sure look like they were taken in the late afternoon....  Is that short-term or long-term memory?)

We soon reach the summit, marked by a plaque in honor of a Berkeley geologist. He’s apparently the guy who mapped out the major geologic features of this area. It’s a fine peak to have named after oneself; the view is great.  The return hike to our bikes is surprisingly quick. In hindsight, on the way up we were gawking at things, plus dealing with a sandy slope. Back on our bikes, we bypass the sandy hill, then detour to check out some chalk pillars. No big whup. Our path then passes by camp, skirting along various fence lines, zigzagging through the sagebrush at insane speeds. Well, insane for us.

Returning to Owens River Road, we find loose gravel over washboard. This makes for sketchy riding. It’s like kayaking in a squirt boat, in that you have to pay attention the entire time, consciously working to keep your balance. But you’ve also got to stay relaxed: just float through the gravel, let the bike swing from side to side as the road wants to pull it. After a couple high-speed miles, you get used to it, and can enjoy the scenery more.

After about 10 minutes of that, the road becomes paved, but we leave it almost immediately, turning north at a campground. I slow down, not wanting to dust the campers, and take the opportunity to stand and stretch tensed muscles. (I never understood what great isometric exercise motorcycling was until I owned one. The constant tensing of muscles involved in moving a heavy machine around corners and over jumps really does give you a workout.) The area here around the Owens River is nice; shady and cool. But camping opportunities appear to be limited by proximity to the campground and private property. Even as I typed that last sentence, I saw the irony: I can’t camp there because it’s a campground. Go figure.

After passing a couple of quads, we accelerate to mach speed as the road winds it’s way out of the caldera. I’d considered detouring to check out the LA aqueduct tunnel entrance, but speed won out as I raced by the probable turnoff. I stopped at the top of the grade to wait for Devo, taking the opportunity to make a quick half dozen jumps off some old slash debris. I can’t help it, I just like the feeling of a good jump. I warn him about a great jump ahead of us, then we take off again. Soon enough, we begin the final climb to the summit, and I hit the jump dead-on, flying up the hill. It’s so good, I turn around and do it again. As luck would have it, as I approach the jump a second time, a County dump truck appears around one of the corners, the first vehicle we’ve seen today (except at the campground). I feel like an idiot, ripping around these roads that they drive normally as part of their job… but it doesn’t slow me down, nope, can’t lose speed. I hit the jump a second time and land turning, ready for the next corner and more waterbars.

After another mile or so I pop out of the trees onto the summit of Bald Mountain. I wait at the junction for Devo, then lead him left, to the southern summit. This is a good high-speed (what else?) half-mile with squirrelly little bumps and an uphill just challenging enough to still be fun. We get off to stretch and enjoy the view. Have I used "awesome" too many times in this trip description?

Long Valley stretches off below us, with the Owens River snaking its way along immediately below us, then off into distant Lake Crowley farther south. A green patch marks the river’s course, tracing its watershed as well as any GIS-generated map. Above and behind the lake rise forested hills, the Volcanic Tablelands, capped by the red rock of Devil's House Mountain. Glass Mountain, with the White Mountains in the distance behind it, rises above the eastern side of the valley, with the Sierras framing the west. This would be a good spot to spend the night, if you’re prepared for wind.

The view behind us is blocked by the other summit, so we’ll head there eventually. But first I detour down a path which contours around the side of the mountain, a narrow track with nice little jumps, which ends at a survey marker. It’s awfully tempting to continue cross-country down the slope, which doesn’t appear too difficult, but we’d be screwed if we found a fence at the bottom. Plus there’s that erosion thing. I do try to ride responsibly.

We turn around and return to the highest point of Bald Mountain, marked by a lookout shack. It’s a cold, bare spot, strafed by the winds coming in between the Mono Basin and Long Valley. Strangely enough, a toddler’s pushy car sits outside the shack; that baby must have some serious winter clothing. We walk around some, snacking on an easy lunch while we enjoy this slightly-different view, which now includes Mono Lake and environs. I make mental notes of places to visit in the future and take lots of photos, including an 8-picture panorama.

Our bikes start right up, and we retrace our path back to camp, arriving there within an hour of leaving the summit.

If Friday was uptight-local night, then Saturday was mellow-local night. We shared the tub for a couple hours with some nice local kids. I say kids, but they were probably older than I think. The only annoying part was the couple who were fucking (or at least going through the motions) in one corner of the tub. That part was pretty strange, how everyone ignored them, but I was sitting upstream in the source, so I didn’t particularly care. The highlight was during the group singing, when I kicked in a few lyrics the others didn’t know from Baby’s Got Back ("LA face with an Oakland booty!"). Yeah, the quiet old guy in the corner can bust some phat lyrics.

Vroom, vroom, we’ve got a good day’s riding ahead of us! I wake up easily and early, to sunrise on the Sierra escarpment.

Our bikes give us both some trouble starting up, probably a combination of the altitude and cold. But soon enough we’re ripping through the hills west of camp, fighting our bikes around the loose corners. I swing wide on a couple turns, lock up my brakes a few other times, and otherwise have troubles finding my rhythm. I notice the rather large dust plume behind me, and briefly pity poor Devo, who is relegated to following me most of the weekend because he’s not as familiar with the area. The final downhill, a washboard s-curve by the shooting range, is a handlebar-clutching rattle, with me damn near laying the bike down anyway. We hit the pavement shortly after, and drive into town for a big breakfast at my local favorite, The Stovepipe.

Today’s proposed destinations include hot springs along Benton Crossing Road, Devil's House Mountain, Carp Slough and various petroglyph sites, then return to camp via Rolling Rock Canyon and a shortcut near the County dump (lot’s of gulls there; maybe a good site for bird watching?). This will later prove to be too ambitious of a schedule; I always end up having a problem tearing myself away from some of these places.

Our first stop is some springs on the south side of Benton Crossing Road. They look and feel nice, but we’re not ready to soak yet, so after 30 minutes of exploring, we hop back on our bikes. We return to the pavement briefly before heading to a spring north of the road. Resisting temptation, we leave our bike in the parking area and walk the ¼ mile to the tub. On arriving, we find the tub already occupied by the Bay Area couple. She is happy to see us and welcomes us to the tub, he appears quiet and moody. They’ve been doing some hot spring hopping themselves, and apparently shared the tubs with some real whackos. I guess she thinks we’re "normal." Bah, hahahahah, ha ha. I guess I’m normal, if you spell it NORML. We have a pretty quick soak, though, ready to get on with our explorations.

After a couple more paved miles, we hit dirt and ride alongside Crowley Lake. We stop and walk a short distance to a small pool filled with trout, formed by a spring gushing from a small cliff. It’s a pleasant place to sit and watch the fish, and think about life. But no time for idle philosophizing, we’re off, up the paved grade to our turnoff south, onto the top of the Volcanic Tablelands.

We rip through another network of dirt roads to a junction at the base of Devil's House Mountain. First I lead Devo down a road to the north which slopes down steeper and steeper until it abruptly drops off a tall cliff. I stop before the point of no return, making sure he does too, then get off the bike briefly to look over the edge and take in the view. Then we race up another spur road to the mine, because I recall some good rock jumps up there. I almost lay my bike down turning around at the top, and he takes a suspicious amount of time catching up to me back at the bottom, so maybe it’s best we’re sticking to flat, graded roads for most of today. Another side road nearby takes us up to a nice camp site among weathered granite boulders, with a good view of Long Valley. I haven’t camped here, but really should make the time to do so.

Like last time, I find myself sucked into the maze of climbing routes leading up. My day’s schedule slips further, as Devo finds a small cave/chimney system which we follow up to a sunny balcony with a view forever. As close as we are to the summit, I have no desire to go further, but instead bask in the sun on this ledge. Eventually, we descend to our bikes.

Our route next takes us over the northern shoulder of Devil's House Mountain and down its eastern slope. Along the way, we find a historic cabin (suitably marked with a plaque, you Redshirts really make the rounds!) and make several fruitless stops to check for petroglyphs on likely-looking rocks. At least it’s a nice area to be out walking around, although I had to keep an eye out for jumping cholla. That shit is mean; it ambushes you when you least expect it.

Arriving at Carp Slough, I find the nice soaking pool at the upper end is almost dried up. There’s no sign of the little fishies I swam with, and I can’t hear any songbirds singing in the reeds. Maybe it’s a seasonal thing and last time I was here was a wet period? A swim would’ve been nice, and I’m sure there’s other pools to the south, but we decide we don’t really have the time. I’d also hoped to have lunch in Bishop. But that would add 14 miles of gravelly washboard to our trip. So we head north along the eastern escarpment, going slow to look for petroglyphs.

Along the way, we pass an interesting rock.

But no petroglyphs until we’ve rejoined the main road and blasted north to the first site I knew of at that time, located next to the road where it dips into a small ravine. The most common style around here seems to be figures scratched or pecked into dark desert varnish, on both horizontal and vertical surfaces. (As opposed to the rock art found where I live, which is usually pecked into horizontal surfaces.) Who were the people who made these etchings? Is there any deep meaning to them, are they utilitarian (like maps, calendars, or messages to other travelers), or are they just random scribbles? I try to imagine what the land around me looked like back when these were made. From what little I understand on the subject, things were probably wetter. Did I read somewhere this area was like the African Savannah?

We continue north, down the straight and level road, rocketing along for stretches before frantically locking up the brakes when a potential petroglyph site catches one of our eyes. There’s a couple false alarms, but then I’m rewarded by finding a single glyph, carved on a smallish rock near the road. A signpost? Territory marker? Graffiti? I hope to God this isn’t the glyph I’ve heard certain commercial guides refer to, as eventually one of their clients is going to return and steal it.

Further passage north brings us to the largest site I know of in the area, where we spend about a half hour walking around. Some interesting lenticular clouds have formed over the White Mountains, so I get some nice pictures.  Well, the subject matter is cool, even if the actual photograph sucks.  In fact, I'm not even going to show the picture here.

Now we’re ready for Rolling Rock Canyon. It’s a fantastic ravine, carved into all kinds of interesting shapes. Definitely a good road to take your time on, something I’ve done many times before, but not today! I saw The Phantom Menace recently, so today I’m acting out the pod racer scene. I don’t have to worry about losing Devo, because there’s only one road in and out of the canyon, so I kick in the plasma drive and go! The road cuts right, then left, then does a quick s-curve with a nice iceberg jump in the middle. I lean into the curves, tucking as close as I can to the rock walls on the inside of each curve. The canyon walls are a red blur on either side, as all my attention is focused forward. I’ll go slow next time, I promise myself, as this really is an interesting canyon.

It’s rare that I encounter any other traffic on this road, and odds are that others will be driving extra slow, gawking at the local wonders. It’s the occasional maniac like myself that concerns me. When I come around a corner and find two senior citizens standing well to one side of the road (It was a blur, but one of them may have been hugging the cliffside), I slow down immediately to what I believe to be a safe, cautious speed. The next corner reveals a whole gaggle of elderly painters, artists and easels scattering before my sudden appearance. I slow down even further, enough to see my caution isn’t appreciated, and with a friendly wave continue on up the canyon at the same slow pace, hoping they won't take the opportunity to stone me.

I wait for Devo at the next junction. The artists surprised him, too. We continue along more well-traveled roads, riding below the cliff we’d looked down from earlier today, at the base of Devil's House Mtn.  Now the precariousness of our previous position can be appreciated. Talk about dead-end road.

The rest of the trip is uneventful, mostly pavement back past Lake Crowley, then a half dozen miles of graded dirt to our base camp. It’s almost dark by the time we pull in, tired and sore, running on fumes (that’s about 110 miles on my bike). Even when I collapse in my chair and close my eyes, I feel like I’m racing around some dirt corner, such has been our pace all day. Phew, nothing a good beer, some grub, and a hot spring won’t fix. Hell, the first item alone usually does the trick.

But that nagging bitch, Responsibility, calls again (no, not my wife, I didn't bring my cell phone), reminding me I have to be at work tomorrow. We pack up and hit the road, with me dreading the long drive ahead. I do the calculations and determine I’ll be home close to 1:00am, ugh! But it turns out not to be so bad, with the miles flying quickly by, few cops and little traffic. My driving habits only scare Devo once or twice that I notice, but he’s a good passenger and doesn’t complain, even though I hear about it later ("You should have seen how he came down the summit with that trailer behind him!"). I guess luck is with me still, though, because upon inspecting the trailer the next day, I find one of the trailer's axel seals had blown out.

I have big, dried, dust boogers for several days, which I welcome as reminders of a very nice weekend.