June 2, 2013
0 miles
558 miles total

The passing trains of Mojave called me to consciousness. As today would be a day of non-advancement I was slow to move. I mulled over the day to come. Usually zeros are for complete rest, but Mojave is unusual as is our host, Jim O’Donnell. Why not dedicate the day to seeing the Mojave region the way I saw it growing up as a kid. The itinerary solidified.

Some background. Mr. O’D was my teacher in junior high. Math to be exact. A subject that I would comfortably fall into the bottom five percent of any given range of students. Yet somehow Mr. O’D figured out a way to make me learn, and grasp that horrible subject.

But it was so much more than that. Mr. O’D taught me that it was OK to live a life outside every conceivable norm and have a hell of a time doing it. Words will never capture him, but ten minutes with him will enlighten. So do yourself a favor if you’re ever waylaid in Mojave, stop by the only donut shop in town and savor the show.

Mr. O’D is also an explorer and herpetologist. He took me, and other kids, all over the Western United States/Mexico exploring and catching snakes. We took risks that would be impossible in today’s culture of litigation. Why not give my friends, who are from every region of the States except the Southeast, a tour of those days?

So off we went. First, we explored the commercial plane dumping grounds of the Mojave Airport as well as its new spaceport where for $250,000 you too can touch space. Next we swung through California City where I had actually lived. The third largest city in California area-wise, it was set up to be land fleece for gullible East Coast investors. Own a piece of the California dream for a couple grand, even if your lot is miles from the middle of nowhere. To Cantil, where a shift in the winds is rapidly swallowing one house at a time in new sand dunes. There Mr. O’D lived until it became untenable.

On to Randsburg and Joburg, two tiny mining towns that hold on, beating off ghosts that want to occupy. There we ate banana splits at a soda fountain and shot pool at “The Joint” whose 100-year-old proprietor and barkeep had just passed.

Nearby we tracked down a mine whose tunnels I had explored extensively as a kid. Its entrances had been sealed—liability again, but there is always a way in. And there was. Slack, Orbit, Doc and Red Beard got a taste of the bowels. On to a vertical mine shaft with a twelve-second-rock drop. Math says that is 1,400 ft. I say a hell of a long way.

Back to Cal. City the back way, always the back way, where we stumbled upon an abandoned house and mining works. Going through the detritus of a life lived and trying to create a story from it is a great pleasure. Yet another mineshaft was discovered for more fun and games. I will never tire of this stuff.

After pizza we hit the back roads hunting for snakes and kangaroo rats that prefer the warmth of asphalt. How to do it? Pile everyone all over the truck in any manner—they can hold on. Drive slowly down the roads all eyes peeled. When someone sees something they scream out the identifying word, and the brakes are hit apothekeschweizer.de. Everyone piles out and tries to put the grabs on it. The catchings were slim, but the fun was not. Maybe hunting was out because of the otherworldly smoke haze that blanketed the sun throughout the day, a reminder that the Powerhouse fire was up to 25,000 acres with 2,000 firefighters fighting the fight.

We arrived back in Mojave, well after midnight, exhausted from our restful zero day.

Sometimes fun is just the better option.

Thanks again, Mr. O’D.

Steve Halteman
On the Pacific Crest Trail
Hiking the PCT for the Kids of Escuela Verde

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