Camping Alone: Spring Break at Joshua Tree

For weeks I’d dreamed of the desert. I’d drift off over a stack of grading, and the images would appear out of nowhere: red cactus, green Joshua Trees, golden rocks.

Spring Break came late this year, tied to a late-April Easter. I started for Joshua Tree on Sunday afternoon, the car full of grading and gear, and drove straight east into an orange moon that rose like a bridge over the highway ahead. I set up my tent by moonlight and spent a lazy morning in camp.

Later I drove up to Hidden Valley, remembering previous trips. The first was in 1980, when Rhiannon was a baby. In March of 1994, longing to be somewhere completely different – somewhere far from Douglas-fir trees – I put both girls in the van and drove south from Oregon, putting 2,800 miles on the car. We all climbed on the rocks.

Most memorably, I sought refuge at Joshua Tree when I learned – the morning after leaving Emily at her expensive LA college – that my editing job was ending. I trudged the Hidden Valley trail in the August heat, sand in my Birkenstocks, pondering the future. In fact, that loss pushed me to teach more classes, which eventually led to a full-time job – much closer to J-Tree, as Rhiannon and the other climbers call it. Now I could join them.

This time I knew to wear boots. I also knew where to find the first glimpse of a bright red Mojave mound cactus. Climbing a rock, I saw a distant barrel cactus with yellow flowers. But the sky was hazing over; the rocks seemed dull in the mid-day light.

By the second day, I’d figured out the rhythm. Up with the sun, and a morning of exploration while it was cool and the light was crisp. Then, as the sky bleached out and the rocks lost their texture, an afternoon of grading. Finally, more exploring as the boulders regained their golden evening glow. Or that was the theory.

In fact, the morning’s adventures tended to last till mid-afternoon, and the grading… well, yes, the grading. It’s always the same on these trips – I bring great intentions and a big stack of papers, and somehow it’s always too hot, too cold, too windy, too bright, too dark… and the same essays come back to town, unread. Maybe I should just cut the outings short and grade at home.

But this time I did fairly well. I actually worked during the afternoons, reminding myself that flat light means boring pictures. I sat at a shaded table at Cottonwood Springs, or in my own camp, or at a picnic area where foreign tourists scrambled up rocks. And I did finish one stack of essays. So that was progress, sort of.

More important were the hikes. I found cactus blooming – six kinds – and purple verbena and bright red paintbrush. I climbed Ryan Mountain and repeated the 49 Palms trail, lined with barrel cactus and chuckwalla lizards – a trail I’d once hiked with my friend Mary. This time, a talk with hikers on that trail led to a musical campfire evening. (Go where you want to go, and you’ll meet the people you want to meet.)

Sitting by my own fire on the last night, I thought about my first solo camping trip – three and a half weeks across the west in 2004. (See today’s other Blog entry.)

I haven’t done another trip that long, but since moving to California, it’s become a tradition to visit the desert over Spring Break: Death Valley, Organ Pipe in Arizona, Joshua Tree. Deserts have the earliest spring flowers, and I like camping where it’s warm. Camping alone in a wet Oregon forest just wouldn’t be the same.

Alone? “Aren’t you scared?” “Don’t you get bored?” No… it’s not scary, and I never run out of things to do. I do try to camp surrounded by friendly families. If I called for help, someone would hear me. But so far, I’ve never needed to shout.

National Park campgrounds are the best. At J-Tree’s Indian Cove, each camp backs onto its own slab of granite. The skyline fills with tiny people exploring giant boulders, as my own girls once did.

That last evening, I sat by my fire, alone but surrounded by humanity, and typed on my laptop. Nearby, the couple beyond my boulder sat by their own fire, flames lighting the rock behind them. Further away, someone beat a monotonous rhythm on a drum. At the group camp down the valley, cheers and shouts erupted at regular intervals.

I wanted to stay forever. Why go back? I had the wilderness, plus all the technology I needed: a laptop that usually worked, a good camera, a reliable Subaru full of rechargers….

But I knew it was time to deal with the rest of the semester. Still, I’m already thinking about the next trip. It’s nearly summer….

Camping Alone: The First Solo Trip, 2004 – A Journey Through Rocks

Sitting alone by the campfire at Joshua Tree this spring, I found myself remembering my first solo car camping trip.

It was 2004, and I had no money. But I did have a few weeks between summer and fall terms, and all spring I’d been thinking about joining Rhiannon in the Rockies – how else could we do the annual backpacking?


In late August, I set out in my old blue Subaru, heading east across Oregon. I was nervous, though not about being alone. I was worried the car would break down before I was out of the state, dashing the dream I’d nurtured all year: just get in the car, alone, and drive… It was hard to believe the trip could actually happen.

Late that evening I stopped at Ochoco Divide, a familiar campground – just far enough from home (about three hours) that it felt like progress. In the morning, I spread my badly organized gear across the table to sort: these things to use, those to put away for later. (And of course this reminded me of our first trip across the Sahara, in an ancient Land Rover so full of spare parts that the extra weight itself led to additional break-downs.)

That afternoon, heading toward Idaho, I found myself beginning to relax: if I could make it beyond the Oregon border, maybe nothing would stop me.

I did make it beyond the Snake River. I camped across Idaho – at a sand dunes park, and the City of Rocks – and then at several places in Utah and Colorado. Thinking ahead to the Rockies, I looked for the highest hike at each camp: the top of the Bruneau Dune, up to Delicate Arch at Arches, a breathless walk to a viewpoint at that first 10,600-foot pass on Colorado’s Interstate 70. (I wasn’t expecting that one – neither was my car.)

During our three days of backpacking at Rocky Mountain, we reached 12,420 feet – the highest I’d ever hiked, before or since. After a day huddled under the tarp in snow and rain, we arose to blue skies. At the top of Tanima Pass, we found roseroot sedum blooming in the snow.

When I started that road trip, I feared I might be bored. How would I spend my evenings? What would I think about during those long days of driving? I packed maps and travel guides and notebooks and books on tape.

But in the end, the problem was lack of time, not lack of things to do with it. By the time I’d found a campsite, put up my tent, and heated a meal, there was hardly time to scrawl a few notes before crawling into my sleeping bag. The notes are still in that notebook, barely legible; I dreamed of one day having a laptop and a way to charge it. When picture cards filled, I had to beg Rhiannon’s colleague or my nephew in Santa Fe to download the photos onto a CD.

I found I liked traveling alone – I liked it very much indeed. I learned all the tricks of living on the cheap. Gas cost less then, and along with the canned soups and mashed potato packets in my car, the cheapest meals were the Polish dogs or burritos at the gas station mini-marts. Sometimes I’d heat a kettle on the camp stove and wash my hair.

By the time I’d driven west through New Mexico and Arizona, I was ready to travel forever. “A Journey Through Rocks,” I called the trip later, sorting my pictures; everywhere, there were arches and passageways and gaps in the rocks – not to mention the ancient houses in built into the cliffs at Mesa Verde.

One of the last stops was at Santa Monica Beach, where I was joined by Emily and my brother – it seemed that everyone ended up in California. (It was just a year later that I drove my 26-foot U-Haul to the Central Valley, followed by Emily in the blue Subaru.)

Driving the long straight miles up Interstate 5, I finally resorted to entertaining myself with story tapes. School would start within days. I’d been on the road for three and a half weeks, but I didn’t want it to end. I’d found it was possible to travel alone – possible, and very enjoyable. And I’ve been doing it ever since.

If a Tree Grows in the Wilderness....

For months, it’s been one thing after another: Middle East turmoil, Japanese disasters, national budget crises, statewide financial struggles – even at my own college, classes have been cut and advertised positions canceled. Every time I open my laptop, there’s something new.

So yesterday, when a government shutdown seemed imminent, I did what I always do during bad times – I went to the mountains. Despite April flowers in the valley, snow covered the hills, which were shrouded in cloud. Sunshine was predicted for the weekend, but by then the national parks might be closed.



Up in the foothills, redbuds bloomed bubble-gum pink amidst the greens, just below the snowline. In the Giant Forest, snow banks towered above my car. At Round Meadow, the path was a series of faint indentations, buried under eight inches of light new powder. I swished through on snowshoes, breaking trail.

I didn’t go far. I stopped along the edge of the meadow, where giant sequoia trunks glowed faintly red beyond the snow. A tentative patch of blue sky suggested sunshine. I stared at the trees and thought about disasters.

If a tree grows in the wilderness and no one can visit it, does it really exist?

For a moment, the sun lit up the trees across the meadow – then it faded. I followed my own tracks back to the road and trudged up the hill. At the main parking lot, the Beetle Rock trail was also pristine, the most recent footprints hidden under snow.



Beyond the rock, clouds hung over the valley, shafts of sun lighting distant rainstorms. I waited for a long time until the sun emerged below the cloud bank. For a moment, the snow sparkled; my shadow appeared on the next ridge east. Then it faded, and the sun went back into the clouds.

I drove down the curves in the dark. Just before I came down out of the snow, a black bear scrambled up out of my headlights into the trees – first bear of the season.



Eventually, I learned the shutdown had been averted. One crisis avoided, at least for now. But the rest are still hanging over us.

Connecting on Castro Street

I live in the heart of conservatism, California’s south Central Valley. It’s my neighbors here who voted to protect marriage by denying that same right to gays. It makes for a challenging place to teach, and most of us keep our political views to ourselves, at least in the classroom.

Nevertheless, when a Rutgers student committed suicide after his roommate aired video of him “making out with a dude,” a small flurry of messages – well, at least four – hit our all-campus email.

Uncharacteristically, I joined in:

Some people may protest that the students at Rutgers were only playing a prank – they didn’t really hate the student involved. But actions have consequences, no matter what the intention. And that’s the angle I plan to take when I talk about this issue in class. . . . this isn’t a matter of politics – it’s a matter of basic decency and civility. I hope a discussion will help our students realize that words and actions have power, sometimes even more than intended.

Having thus committed myself, I had to follow through. I shared the Rutgers student article in every class. On the whole, even those students who “disagree with that lifestyle” were appalled by the roommate’s actions. I also mentioned the “Safe Zone” sticker on my door. It shouldn’t be necessary to label myself as “safe” – comfortable with gay concerns – but apparently it is.

Yesterday, I visited San Francisco with a group of students. Some had never been to this city before, never ridden a train, never bought a ticket for the subway – and perhaps never knowingly met someone who was gay.

Toward the end of the day, we all rode the trolley up Market Street to the Castro District. It was a lovely blue-skied day, with rainbow flags catching the sun. We saw a few presumably gay couples, a poster for drag queen shows, a shop with videos featuring two men, and a number of random tourists. Pretty tame stuff, really.

Nevertheless, our students found it intense. They were a bit uncomfortable – as shown by the nervous giggles – but still fascinated. The high point was apparently the guy in high heels with the purple wig. “I like your hair,” someone told him, meaning it.

As we descended into the station at Harvey Milk Square, I mentioned that I’d almost watched the opening of “Milk” at the Castro Theater. “That would have been so awesome!” one student exclaimed. “I loved that film!”

So, now and then, I see a glimmer of hope. Even the language suggests possibilities: the phrase “gay marriage” would have seemed unthinkable a few years ago. If language can change, maybe attitudes will follow.

Last week, when we talked about the Rutgers suicide in one class, the only anti-gay comments came from two thirty-something students. Many of the eighteen-year-olds claimed to have gay cousins or friends; most seemed at least somewhat accepting.

I think the change will come, but it feels slow. After all, it’s bullying by other teens that seems to have led to the current rash of gay student suicides.

Maybe it’s a mistake to keep our views to ourselves. I still think my teaching is most effective when I avoid pushing my own beliefs. But opening students’ eyes is another matter. And when it comes to basic civility and decency, we definitely need to take a stand.

The Power of Blogging

Blogging has power. I don’t mean power in affecting my readers, assuming there are any – I mean power in its effect on me.

When I first started consistently writing this blog in July, I didn’t know which direction it would go. The focus on hiking came as a surprise. What about all those other things I’d meant to write?

But somewhere in those early entries, I’d challenged myself. “I still want to reach those High Sierra Lakes,” I wrote in an early post. A few days later, struggling to reach a 9,000-foot meadow, I wondered whether I could even climb another thousand feet.

To my own surprise, the weekly hikes paid off – by mid-August, I’d carried my pack up Kearsarge Pass, at nearly 12,000 feet. And below me lay the lakes I’d longed to see.

But it wasn’t just the hiking that helped. There was something about the words – writing and publicizing them – that kept me going. Writing has power; words have consequences. Plodding up the trail, I composed blog entries. Most never reached the page, but even thinking the words gave me focus. It’s partly the blogging that helped me reach the High Sierras at last.

These days, I’m not writing much. Fall semester started immediately after that last hike. The words still write themselves in my head, but teaching and grading control my life.

Still, it makes me wonder. What else could I achieve? Maybe not the whole Crest Trail or a PhD – at least, not right now – but a finished novel?

Or, on a smaller scale, some story submissions or a few photos at a local gallery? Maybe, even, a less chaotic house before December, when my sixtieth birthday rolls around?

Into the Sierras - At Last

A week ago, I stood with a backpack at 11,800 feet on Kearsarge Pass, looking out into the Sierras. Ever since I moved to California, this is where I’ve wanted to be. Now that I’m teaching again, I’m still enjoying the afterglow. I wasn’t sure I could carry a pack that high.

It wasn’t the first time we’d tried this trip. About three years ago, Rhiannon and I had planned a September hike over Kearsarge Pass. I’d done part of the trail that summer, and it seemed a good route – a high starting point (9,100 feet), a nicely graded trail, a relatively short hike. But we awoke that morning to fog, rain, snow, and hail. We loaded our backpacks, stared up at the snowy rocks disappearing into the mist – and drove east to Death Valley.

This time we had sunshine. The trail went up and up from Onion Valley, past five lakes, but even the last switchbacks weren’t as bad as I’d expected. All those high country hikes have paid off. The slopes looked barren, but flowers hid between the rocks, including such new ones as the Sierra primrose. I kept stopping for pictures. Rhiannon waited. Other hikers stopped to chat – the high country is a friendly place. One hiker said he was a geologist in Antarctica.

And finally – the pass. Layers and layers of ridges and valleys, disappearing into a smoky haze from fires to the south. (The next two days were clear.) We rested for a long time, eating sausage and crackers, taking pictures, comparing notes with others. Eventually we hiked down to Kearsarge Lakes, with soup and freeze-dried chicken and rice for dinner. For morning, we planned an easy day of exploration.

After a slow meander past Bullfrog Lake, we headed up toward Glen Pass. I wasn’t sure I’d make it – at 11,900+ feet, it was even higher than Kearsarge – but it wouldn’t matter. By the time we reached the first little lake below the pass, it was three o’clock. I sent Rhiannon ahead with the camera – maybe I’d explore the upper lake and head slowly down while she took pictures from the top.

But soon I had second thoughts. When else would I be near Glen Pass? When else would I be fit enough to climb it? On the map, the second lake looked significantly closer to the pass. And beyond the lake were the final switchbacks.

With a sudden renewal of energy, I started up the trail. The second lake, like the first, was surrounded by barren rocks, but shooting stars and rosy sedum grew tall along the stream. Above the lake was the ridge. Through binoculars, I could just see a tiny Rhiannon silhouetted on top, taking pictures. I gave the family shout – “Aaah-oo-waaah!” She looked around, saw my whole body waving, and waved back. “I – might – come – up!” I shouted. She waved again.

Despite the switchbacks, the grade was gentle. My legs and lungs held out. I yawned, just a little, but wasn’t tempted to sleep – no snores this time. And up near the top, almost hidden under a boulder, was a blue flower I’d seen only in pictures – sky pilot, in the phlox family, said to grow at higher elevations than any other plant in the Sierras.

As I reached the ridge, Rhiannon and a young man from Montana cheered. The Rae Lakes lay scattered across a valley far below us. Rhiannon said the skinny one should be for lap-swimming.

Eventually we started down the switchbacks, trading the camera back and forth so we’d both be in the pictures. By the time we reached our camp, it was nearly dark, and a tiny crescent moon glowed in the west. I was exhausted – it had been a ten-mile day.


Friday morning, the trail up the west side of Kearsarge Pass was a lot steeper than the eastern one. I found more sky pilot, a bit faded, just below the ridge. Strangers congratulated us as we reached the top.

We hated to leave. On the way down toward Onion Valley, we stopped for rests, stopped for flowers, stopped for photographs – no hurry for the real world.

The hiking books describe this trail as “easy” and “short,” at least by Sierra standards. Well, yes – that’s why I chose it. But for me? As I said when I started this Blog, I’m short and round and out of shape – though less unfit now than earlier. In four months, I’ll be sixty. Maybe this is an easy hike for some people, but for me, it was a big deal.

I’m still studying the guidebooks. They make more sense now; I know those places. I’ve been there – into the Sierras. And even though it’s time for other things, I’m already thinking about the next trip.

Jefferson Park: The 20th Anniversary Mother–Daughter Backpacking Trip

It’s been several weeks since I last wrote. Blogging takes time. I can live life, or I can write about it. Lately, I’ve been living it.

Much has changed since I wrote last month. I kept hiking (and teaching). I finally reached Franklin Lake – a twelve-mile day. Another twelve-mile day took me to Pear Lake. Was I ready, finally, to carry a pack without getting totally wiped out?

This summer, it’s been twenty years since the first mother–daughter backpacking trip, when Rhiannon was ten years old. To honor this anniversary, she suggested we return to Jefferson Park.

On that first trip, we went in from Woodpecker Ridge to the south. The parking is high, and the side trail joins the Pacific Crest Trail for an easy hike north along the western flank of Mt. Jefferson.

We both remember that trip well – camping at a tiny lake, crossing a roaring river, and camping in mosquitoes and snow.

But what we mainly remember is the hike out. After a night or two, we continued north up Park Ridge, where we looked back down from 7,000 feet to the lakes and meadows of the “park” where we’d just camped. But to the north, where my mother was to meet us at Breitenbush Lake, a giant snowfield stretched for three miles, with only a single set of footprints showing the way.

We followed the footprints.

Several hours later, we reached Breitenbush Lake just in time to see the last car pull out of the campground. And there we sat down to wait. And wait….

Meanwhile, my mother – with her own mother, aged eighty-five, and Emily, who’d just turned six – was following a rocky track that became worse at every bend. Stopping near Ollalie Lake, she sought advice. “What kind of rig are you driving?” she was asked. She climbed back into her little Camry and continued on.

By the time the car arrived, we were cooking up the last of our camping food and preparing for a long night in the campground.

You might think that after a trip like that – the bugs, the snow, the long wait – we would have been discouraged. But no… we’ve backpacked every summer since then. Seven days across the Oregon Wallowas was the longest trip. A couple miles along Idaho’s Snake River (at 95-plus degrees) was one of the shortest. Sometimes the two of us go alone; other trips, we have company. Often we’re limited by time, or by my lack of fitness. But always, we do it.

This time we chose the Park Ridge route – it’s the most challenging way into Jefferson Park, but also the prettiest. Though it was early August, the trail still had long stretches of snow. We started up at 4 p.m. on Tuesday, hiking past tiny lakes and scarlet-colored paintbrush, through snowfields and swarms of mosquitoes.

We didn’t meet many people that day – just a few through-hikers, including a man who’d left the Mexican border on April 22nd. Though I’ve always wanted to do that whole trip, hiking six miles to Jefferson Park was enough of a challenge for now.

By evening, we were on top of the ridge, with Mt. Jefferson shining pink, and the sun somehow still lighting up the meadows and lakes of Jefferson Park beneath it.

The light faded during the downhill stretch. We could see Russell Lake below us, so I told Rhiannon to go find a campsite. I followed at my usual slow place. The trail seemed to go on and on. And on.

I tried a shout, the family contact call we’d used for finding each other in the African rain forest – Aaah-oo-waaah! No answer.

Finally I stopped, dropped the pack, and dug out the map, my glasses, and a head lamp. (I like head lamps: wherever you look, it’s light.)

Surprise – I’d missed the turn-off to the lake. I tried another shout and headed back the way I’d come.

After a while, I heard Rhiannon give our call. I gave the “I hear you” response – Oooh-oo. At our camp in the trees, I put up my tent while Rhiannon heated water for freeze-dried chicken with rice. We sat under the stars till nearly midnight. The Milky Way seemed to erupt from Mt. Jefferson, flowing north toward the ridge.

We spent Wednesday exploring meadows, photographing flowers, circling lakes, swimming in the reflection of Mt. Jefferson. Jefferson Park is a mosaic of patchy forest and green meadows where melting snow creates countless tiny pools. The pools mirror pieces of mountain and breed millions of mosquitoes. It’s one of my favorite places in the world.

Thursday we hiked out over the ridge, glissading down across the snow – Rhiannon quickly, while I followed more slowly.

I’m grateful to have a daughter who’s been so patient with me, all these years. And the promise of summer backpacking inspires me to push myself beforehand and travel long distances to wherever she’s working – Idaho, Wyoming, Colorado, Washington.

“You should be able to do this till you’re seventy,” Rhiannon tells me. Well, maybe. We’ll see.