Diamonds in Baja preview 9 - Johnson Canyon

Frank read the Los Angeles Times and saw his picture. He retrieved a flashlight, a plastic canteen, and a Swiss Army knife from the saddlebag. The tourist site yielded a University of Arizona Jacket that somebody must have removed and forgotten. Maybe they had been afraid that some mentally challenged hunter would mistake them for a wildcat. Some visitors had left unfinished drinks in the trash--enough to fill his plastic canteen. It was not much, but it would do if he kept out of the sun. He found a good brown paper bag to use to carry things.

He had never doubted that they were looking for him. He used the Swiss Army knife scissors to cut his hair, so his golden locks would be less conspicuous. A meal of sausages and whiskey was followed by another joint and then by sleep.

☼

Although the night was very cold, Frank settled for a stick of pepperoni for breakfast to get an early start. He must have regretted leaving the bike behind, but they would be looking for a biker. Maybe he could retrieve it on the way out. He started hiking down the mountain before the sun was up. He was freezing. He hungered for the warmth of the valley.

The steep trail offered a rough descent with repeated tight switchbacks. He took a bad fall, when he accidentally stepped off the trail onto some steep scree, in the dark. His left hand was bleeding. Frank was up to it. He wrapped his hand in his spare bandana. He kept moving. The trail became easier as the promise of sunlight revealed the lay of the land. He left the steeper terrain behind. By late morning, he reached the upper reaches of Johnson Valley road. He slowed now. The valley heat was already sapping his strength.

A long walk down the road brought him to a wide spot in the canyon. A grove of cottonwood trees grew here in a triangular recess, against a steep canyon wall. This hideaway was warmed by the canyon mouth nearby, but Frank was in no mood to take on the midday heat. He needed to rest-up for the walk that lay ahead that night. He staggered into the grove and found a clearing, in the corner of the cliff face, where the soil was relatively level.

Coyote melons sprawled on the floor of the clearing connected by looping fat vine stalks. Some of the vines were as long as thirty feet. He knew the coyote melons by their gourds and by their five lobed palmate leaves. The gourds were about five inches around and looked to be ripe. Frank had grown up in the Mojave Desert, in Barstow, and so had a passing knowledge of desert flora and fauna. He knew that the Indians had used the roots of the coyote melon for soap. The leaves of a closely related plant, the buffalo gourd, made an effective poultice for flesh wounds. He dug up some roots and gathered some leaves. Then he mashed them up. He cleansed his wounded hand with the leaf soap and applied a root poultice. He held the poultice in place with his bandana.

He cut open a melon and tried to eat it. It did not taste very good, but had lots of moisture, so he cut open some more until he had topped off his canteen.

Finally, he rolled up his leather jacket around the shotgun, and used it for a pillow. He napped in the shade by the clearing.

Diamonds in Baja preview 8 - Stovepipe Wells

Late in afternoon, the Raider broached Towne Pass into a panorama of Death Valley. If the Mojave had been hot, then Death Valley was searing. The Sand Dunes, however, were somewhat obscured. There, before Jerry and Irene, was a towering swirling cone of sand and dust, like a tornado, pirouetting off the highway towards the Sand Dunes.

Jerry pulled over to watch.

He whipped out his trusty Olympus 35 mm and took several pictures as the sand cone rose higher and drifted to the east-northeast. Eventually the cone of swirling dust began to lose its conical shape. It dissipated into a more conventional wall of sand, as it drifted eastward and slightly north into the Grapevine Mountains.

When they first saw the storm, it was just across the highway from the resort, but traveled away from the oasis and right over the stovepipes. Out by the Dunes were ancient stovepipes sunken into the sand to reach water.

☼

Jerry’s mind wandered to the time when he had spent the night sleeping out there. He had made reservations at Stovepipe, but his car had overheated late at night. He had slept on the other side of Towne Pass until 3:00 am. He had poured some water in the radiator and had come down to the resort, but he had been embarrassed to show up so late. He had gone out near the edge of the Devil’s Cornfield. There he had set up his Celestron telescope and tried to find the comet (which had been the purpose of the trip). Instead, he had found a raven. The raven had launched off Tucki Mountain and levitated as if it were a butterfly in a Carlos Castaneda vision. It had not moved its wings, but had just floated like a spirit. That’s when he had adopted the raven as his totem.

☼

The sheet of dry rain now blew across the north-south highway and through the passes of the Grapevine Mountains on the east side of Death Valley.

Irene, “I’m hungry! We gonna get some comida or watch sand blow?”

Jerry, “Sorry! It’s cooling down now, only about 90 degrees, so I guess that’s the last sandstorm of the day. Let’s go eat!”

Jerry drove on down to Stovepipe Wells Resort, well above the floor of Death Valley on the west side. He parked under the shade of a large spreading tree. There was a cacophony of jungle birdcalls emanating from that tree.

Stovepipe Wells was easily the most romantic resort in the valley because it had limited accommodations, and so fewer tourists. Its prices were low to attract travelers from places like Germany, France, Russia, and England. They spoke with exotic dialects! The motel sat higher up and further north of the competition, giving it cooler temperatures. Jerry had always hoped to come for the saloon with live entertainment.

Occupying the office was a husky woman with a nametag that read ‘Svetlana.’

“Da! May I help you?”

“Is your name really Svetlana?” Jerry asked.

“Da!”

“How come a Russian woman is running a resort in Death Valley? I mean; we would have expected to find a Death Valley Dorothy, or a Stove Pipe Wells Shortie!”

“I am eemmigrant! Your ancestors, eemmigrants! I same as your family! Can I help you?”

“Well, first all, what kinds of tropical birds are out in that tree? It sounds like the Amazon Jungle! How do you keep tropical birds in the desert?”

“Niet! Is not tropic birds! Is one raven, who very happy! Perhaps he happy see you! Perhaps he happy ‘cause he find a sucker.”

“I don’t believe it!”

Irene was in no mood to cook dinner. “How about food? Is there someplace we can eat?”

“Da! Over there ees restaurant, which serve food in half hour. When you finish, saloon ees good. Got Country-Western, you like!”

“Thank you!”

Jerry and Irene sat in the shade of the large spreading tree waiting for the restaurant to open. Sure enough, looking up into the tree revealed that all of that noise indeed emanated from one very happy raven, a single raven who was not just going caw, cu, or cree.

Irene contemplating Svetlana, “When you visit Mexico don’t you expect Mexicans?” Irene grumbled. “When you visit Death Valley, don’t you expect to see the borax miner’s daughter?”

“Remember when we went to Las Vegas?” Jerry reflected. “We went to the Venetian and expected to see some Italians. Remember how most of the people in the Venetian were Filipinos?” he paused. “Hey, don’t knock it. I heard on 60 Minutes that the Russians are going crazy over American Country Western music. They have their own C and W groups. And the Japanese are going crazy over traditional American Jazz.”

Irene shook her head. “Kind of ruins the ambiance. I wonder if Russians like Mariachi.”

Jerry threw his hands in the air. “Maybe the Japanese do.”

☼

The restaurant finally opened. Jerry had a tri-tip steak and Irene had ‘Death Valley Trout,’ which must have been imported like Svetlana. They shared a carafe of Mirassou Cabernet Sauvignon.

After their meal, they walked over to the saloon. They spent several hours drinking and listening to the music. A Marty Robbins look-alike sang songs like ‘Cool Clear Water’ and ‘Streets of Laramie.’ The songs carried them away in visions of the pioneers who had lost their lives to this parched wasteland. Just as they were about to leave, ‘Marty’ did a rendition of ‘El Paso,’ so they had to have one more drink. Irene smiled, grabbed the swizzle sticks and out they went.

Jerry, “What do you want those swizzle sticks for?”

Irene, “I think they’re cute. Look, one ees a miner’s pick and the other ees shaped like barbed-wire.”

“Since when did miners use barbed-wire?”

“Since those people came through in the covered wagons.”

☼

They groggily followed the dark highway down past Devil’s Cornfield to the Junction where Highway 190 turns south. A blinded bobcat stared into the headlights and then ran off. They saw a coyote jogging along the side of the road. Finally, lights appeared far to the south and eventually became larger.

What Furnace Creek Ranched lacked in atmosphere, compared to Stovepipe Wells, it made up for with its accommodations--for a higher price. It had golf, a large swimming pool, a choice of restaurant or coffee shop, tennis, and even stores for shopping. For some unexplainable reason, it had no live entertainment at the bar, just drinks! Jerry and Irene went to their room, across from the pool, and got ready for bed.

Jerry was ready to shake off the excitement of the day. “Sure glad we lost that Frank guy or whoever he was.”

Irene brought the newspaper in from the Raider and closed the door for privacy. “Why don’t you look in the newspaper and see if there’s a story.”

Jerry thumbed through the Los Angeles Times. It was huge, compared to the bay area papers. He turned to the California and Local news. “Hey, sweetheart, that was Frank that we saw! They’ve got a picture of him.”

“Does it say anything new?”

“They say he might have been responsible for a shotgun reported stolen last night from a Mojave police car. They say that he they believe he is headed for his stash of diamonds, somewhere in the desert between Pahrump and Panamint Springs, and that California and Nevada Law Enforcement have extended their shifts and increased their vigilance. They are hoping to apprehend him within the week. Hey, the diamond market has gone up since he stole them. His diamonds are supposed to be worth forty-four million on today’s market.”

“Are there any peectures of his friends?”

“No! They don’t even mention them.” Jerry walked to the bathroom to brush his teeth. “I suppose sex is out for tonight?”

“Posiblemente, I may have no sex again, Jerry!” she said earnestly.

At least they had a comfortable room with no scorpions. The only bugs were those that buzzed around the yellow light outside.

Diamonds in Baja preview 7 - Shoshone

Mose awoke early--Arturo had rolled over and hugged him, murmuring about how much he loved him. That was enough for Mose. He walked outside in the early morning light, down to the turnoff for Shoshone.

An all-night automotive shop sat at the junction with its faded blue neon sign glowing like a Halloween pumpkin--“Auto Repair.” The big tow truck squatted, covered with morning dew--like a spider waiting for a fly to hit its giant web that extended across the desert from Death Valley in the North to Kelso in the South and from Afton Canyon in the West to the Nevada border in the East--to snag a hapless motorist. Pumps dispensed gas outside, east of the garage. Customers drifted in all night long from the Interstate, traveling to and from Las Vegas and Los Angeles. Customers had to summon the lone nighttime mechanic from his noisy garage onto the dark tarmac to collect his gas payments.

☼

It was here that Frank, Arturo, and Mose had car-jacked the diamond broker five years ago. They had had no way of knowing who he was. They had been simply looking for a free ride to Pahrump. Frank had insisted that they stop on Ibex Pass to examine the man’s locked case. They had known what they would have to do--at least Frank had known--when they first saw the tiny sparkles from within the case, like stars on a cloudless new moon night.

☼

Back at the motel, Mose took the keys and drove the van to the other end of town to avoid being recognized. There he filled the tank in anonymity. He bought a newspaper to see if the story of Frank’s escape had broken in the press. Reluctantly he walked slowly back to the motel to wake Arturo.

They picked up McMuffins with Coca-Colas for breakfast and headed north. Mose drove up the gradual slope of State Route 127 towards Shoshone, a long drive on a two-lane road through the sparsely vegetated and dusty desert. Mose put on some Wes Montgomery in the tape player to make the miles go by easier. If Arturo had been feeling better, he might have insisted on Santana.

Eventually they reached Ibex Pass, at 2,072 feet. Crossing Ibex Pass brought them out of San Bernardino County, across an indefinite boundary, and into Inyo County. The surveyed boundary may have been indefinite according to the government; but Ibex Pass was a distinct watershed in the lives of these two men, more than just the point of no return to Baker, which sat at only 923-foot elevation. Mose had blown a head gasket on Ibex Pass years ago, and had miraculously coasted all the way back to the auto-repair shop with the tow truck and the neon sign in Baker.

☼

It was here that they had dumped the body of the dead broker. It had been Frank, who had brutally strangled him with the broker’s own leather belt. It was Frank, who had kept the broker’s jewel encrusted scorpion silver buckle as a souvenir. Once the broker had died, they had all known in that instant that they could never go home again. It would have meant a potential death penalty for each of them, if the authorities were to apprehend them--and that is what happened.

☼

Mose and Arturo crossed silently through the pass, neither of them inclined to review how they had spent the following three years.

Ten minutes down the road, they reached the welcome sight of Shoshone with its shady cottonwood trees on the Amargosa, or Bitter, River. The Bitter River was so bitter sometimes that a person could smell it, but not so much in the springtime.

They made a beeline to the Crowbar for a couple of cold beers. There was nobody in the bar and a lady had to come over from the café to tend the bar. Rustic, ancient, dusty mining equipment and mining photographs hung on otherwise plain walls. The old-fashioned jukebox on the south wall was lit up, so they figured it still worked.

After a frosted Coors and Fats Domino’s ‘Blueberry Hill’ on the jukebox, they sauntered into the adjoining café for a couple of cheese melts. Mose had a tall iced tea and Arturo had a Mountain Dew. Someone had let in a cheese-loving bee. It kept buzzing their plates--when it was not flying around the gauzy curtains, looking for a way out to the sunlight. Arturo got a headache watching the bee and said he was going back to the bar. Mose finished Arturo’s sandwich and followed.

They had a few more beers in silence. The bar tender returned from the café and said he did not want any overnight parking on his property. There was a trailer court down the road and across the street where they could rent cheap storage space.

They drove over to the trailer court and rented a slot for six days. After they shit and shaved, they walked over to the communal restroom facilities to cool off in the warm saline shower that sprayed out of a salt encrusted fixture.

It was too late for anything else that day, so they got some sleep so they could get an early start the next morning.

Diamonds in Baja preview 6 - Green Mojave

The 18-wheeler was coming down the highway in the dark with one light out. It did not see the woman carrying the baby. She began shrieking in terror. The truck made impact.

Jerry awoke with a start from his dream state. Somebody was hollering.

“ . . . Sheet! Damn! Ouuh sheet! Did chu do thees to me Jerry? ’Cause eef you did . . .”

“Hey! People are trying to sleep! The sun’s not even up yet. What the Hell’re you squawkin’ about?”

Irene was shaking. “You did it! I’m through with you! The trip is over! Let’s go back! I will take all of my chingararas out of your place and find a new place to stay!”

“Hey! ¡Mi corazón! I love you!”

“Then why deed you put that scorpion in my pantaloons?”

“Scorpion? Oh shit!” Jerry jumped off his cot--being very careful where he stepped. “Where is he?”

“He’s right over there! What you wanna to do, take heem home for the kitty-cat to play weeth?”

Jerry cringed as he gingerly stepped over the sharp stones and captured the scorpion in the matchbox from the table.

“I just want to examine him.”

“Am I going to die?”

“I dunno! Give me a minute!”

Jerry fumbled through the SUV for his bug book. He found it and turned pages endlessly. “Guess what?”

“I dun’t know!”

“He’s a Mojave Green. You’re lucky! Your gonna live, but you will be in lots of pain for several hours.”

“Lucky! What you mean lucky! Eat hurts like hell! I can’t even walk!”

“Where did he bite you that it hurts so much?”

“On my puussee, idiot! Where did you theenk he beet me?”

“How in the Hell did he sting you on your pussy?”

“I dun’t know?”

“Did you make sure your clothes were all off of the ground and shake them before putting them on, like I told you?”

“No, Señor! I deedn’t!”

“Lucy, what am I going to do with you?”

“I’m sorry, Ricky! Let’s go home play cards with Fred ‘n’ Ethel?”

“Nope! You won’t ruin our vacation by being contrary. You were warned and you messed up, but you’ll live. Anyway, you’d be feeling better before we could even get back to Bakersfield. Now where’s breakfast?”

“What? ¡Vete a hacer puñetas!”

“Just kidding! Red Mountain is just about a half hour from here. But it’s your turn to drive.”

“¡Puto!”

“Alright! I’ll drive, but you owe me. I suppose I have to pick up all of the camp stuff by myself?”

“You damn right, Gringo!”

Jerry cleaned everything up and changed out of his geek clothes into his desert duds. When he was done, he hardly looked the same.

☼

The only place that was open in Red Mountain was The Red Mountain Café and Cantina.

They parked around back to shade the Raider from the early desert sun and went inside. Irene limped like a two-dollar whore.

Mostly locals were inside, except for a biker sitting by himself. They sat up front and watched the street to see who else in town was awake. Jerry ordered the Red Mountain equivalent of a Grand Slam breakfast and Irene ordered some chorizo with a Margarita.

Jerry snickered. “That chorizo won’t help!”

Irene frowned. “What do you mean?”

“You can’t poop out the pain--it goes away on its own.”

“Shut up! I love you, but shut up!”

“Tell you what! I’ll throw in an extra treat. We’ll stop by the Stove Pipe Wells cantina tonight and have some drinks and check in late at Furnace Creek Ranch!”

“Oh! I love you! And I thought I would have to sleep with Señor Scorpion again tonight.”

The biker paid his bill and walked out.

“Jeez! Geraldo! It’s him again!” she whispered.

Jerry looked out the window. Sure enough, it was the same dude. “We should pick up a paper before we leave town and take it with us. It may have a picture of that Frank guy. That may be him.”

The truck delivered the newspapers to the café and one of the waitresses placed them in a sales rack. Jerry and Irene finished their meal and bought one of the newspapers. As they turned to go out, that same biker was heading out of town on the same bike with a thunderous roar.

A few moments later, they headed out in the same direction as the biker.

☼

Frank--riding free--soon out-distanced them. He turned off onto Ballarat Road towards Sentinel Peak. He buzzed the ghost town of Ballarat and headed up the mountain towards the Panamint City ghost town.

He waited patiently for the last tourists to leave for the day, all the while pretending to enjoy the scenery. He was careful to lay his jacket inside up on his bike, at the ghost town, to hide its emblem, and he kept his face averted from the tourists. Finally, the last tourists left and Frank was alone.

There was a trail, Johnson Canyon Trail, which led up close to Sentinel Peak. He followed it a short distance until it became too steep. There he hid his bike behind a thick Utah Juniper. He climbed to the pass, from where he could view the great expanse of Death Valley.

It was cooler up here--8,200 feet above the sea--the sea that he had watched so many times from his San Quentin cell. Frank was grateful that he had thought to buy matches and a cook stove. He would spend the night on the summit. He set up a makeshift camp and rolled a joint. Tonight he would enjoy the smell of pine needles, by a campfire, and not worry about rat droppings or the police. It felt so good he hardly noticed the cold.

☼

Down below at 1,050-foot elevation, Jerry and Irene had stopped to prowl around the ghost town of Ballarat. Jerry had told Irene that the road into Death Valley over Towne’s pass was a 13 per cent grade. He thought they should wait until the relative coolness of afternoon to cross over.

When they left, driving towards Panamint Springs, Irene reminded Jerry that the radio news the day before had said that Frank had been arrested near Panamint Springs. Jerry thought it was probably a coincidence.