Maps maps maps

We've been playing and have discovered how to make our own Google Maps! We've not gotten very far, but this is Pe's latest method of procrastination, so it will probably move swiftly. ;)

Clicking on the following will take you to the actual interactive map that you can play with.


Road Trip: Day 1


Yosemite National Park: Days 2-5

***
Here's a very quick crash course in using Google Maps for those of you who might not have... (We can never assume these things now...)

The screen will look (a bit) like this:



Purple Circles: Click on the pins and other little symbols to view a comment and/or picture.

Red Circles: three different views of the area - map, satellite and hybrid.

Orange Circles: Zoom In and Out (mouse wheel will offer similar results. Also, left click, right click and both-button click will provide different panning options)

Blue Circles: Minimises the writing on the left side of the screen.

If it suddenly and for no reason starts flying across the world, just press all the arrow keys until it stops (actually, if the map is flying left, pressing the left button should solve the problem)

***
Well, that's about it. Hopefully we'll end up with a few maps to show you where we are and where we've been, and how far we drove that day...

Hope you had a great Easter!

Tombstone (7 Dec 06)

Pe had fond memories of visiting a ghost town and thought it may have been Tombstone, and since we were in the area we decided to check it out. Boot Hill, the reasonably famous cemetery of those wild and woolly cow pokes was first on the list and may I say...humph.

When Pe visited back in 1992, the tombstones of Boot Hill were the originals - or at least appeared as though they could have been... Now they are gay-arsed crosses of yellow painted metal, more at home at the Western section of Movie World than a reasonably famous cemetery of wild and woolly cow pokes. Still, some of the inscriptions are amusing - showing a lighter side of the community at large.



And can I say that mandatory donations are a fucking load of shit. Just come out and charge people you unscrupulous fucks.

Despite the disappointment of Boot Hill, and the simple fact that Tombstone is not a ghost town, we wombled about, stumbling into the old courthouse museum with a careful eye on the car and the jar-headed, buck-toothed deviant and his porcupine girlfriend/cousin that were stink-eyeing the world at large.

The courthouse/museum's factuation range was varied and covered the town's origins, it's cow-based history, women and schooling, rifles, the saga of fighting and reparating with the natives, the law, the court, the punishment, the town, and a variety of stories about various characters about the town (like the poor bugger who bought a lot for prospecting, grew old and weary of prospecting, sold the land for less than he'd paid, only to have the new owner prospect a massive gold vein).

And of course, it had a shotgun full of info about the infamous shooting. No one really knows what happened at the OK Corral, since the cow rustlers were all shot and the law were kind of known to be a bit lean on morality (Ahhh Doc Holiday - how'd that syphillis* go for you?). Even the historians studying the shooting cannot come to a general consensus - except for the fact that the Earps and Doctor Syph* were full of shit and spitting tobacco.

*Admittedly, Doctor Syph actually died of Tuberculosis or "Consumption", not Syphillis, but details shouldn't get in the way of saying that someonw died of Syphillis, should they?

Brimming like-an-over-sized-Fedora-hat with information, we rustled up a saloon to unbrim our heads. As we stepped through the classic saloon doors we felt much like the tourists we were, as the honky tonk piano, poker players, barman, dancers, and whores all stopped to stare at us. Ok, it was a bunch of old guys and they were watching the news but the effect was not much the same. We lassoed a tasty local beer and this fruity little number: Electric Dave's IPA. It did not smell like Attitude, it did not smell like Dave's arsehole. It was ok. P liked it.

At the end of a long day, and driving through the Tuscon so well-known to all those Beatles fans, we stopped in for some genuine close-to-the-border Mexican food. At least the beer was Mexican, even if nothing else in the place was.

Organ Pipe National Monument (7th Dec)

Organ Pipe - funny name, right?

Yeah, we thought so too.

After we left Joshua Tree (or The Joshster as he is more often called in the shacks and shanties of old Nature-stoners) we hit a fat lot of highway - desert style. Twas a strange introduction. We flew through a wild mixture of AM and FM radio bands, picking up such diversity as the typical evangelists (we would hear a lot of these), Spanish radio (two stations at all times. Sometimes, all we could pick up was Spanish radio... so many trumpets), a bunch of country stations, a couple of decent rock-ish stations, a fucking awesome rock station (that unfortunately could only accommodate us for about 50 miles), some fat chauvinistic guy whose reason d'etre was to yell out at people who disagreed with him, and the 'Randi Rhodes Show' - who lightened up our day with her discussion on Meth Labs, and the (apparent) many exploding Meth Labs in New York City (I think the one in question was in a penthouse). Randi also offered us our favourite line of the day, regarding former US permanent representative to the UN, John Bolton, "I just want him to admit to the world that he is a horrible person."

* In an interesting sidenote, while trying to remember John Bolton's name a few weeks ago, I typed "US representative to UN" into Google. The responses weren't immediately helpful so I tried another approach: "US representative to UN republican asshole" and bingo bango - John Bolton's name started appearing like a rash.

We stopped in at a truck stop and ate some Chesters - a horrible Red Rooter meets KFC derivative, but instead of cooking the chicken in herbs and spices and oil, they must cook them in the liquified remains of dead and dying chickens. We kind of felt sick afterwards. Each eating booth was equipped with a payphone, and in one of the booths nearby there was a sickly-looking middle-aged couple, the woman of which was calling her mum having missed her sister's birthday because they couldn't afford the phonecall and they've moved to a new trailer park and things might be ok and they should have enough food stamps but she probably can't afford another phone call for a while.
Needless to say, Chesters was a depressing lunch spot.

Nearer the end of the day we passed through a truck stop that was more of a truck town, or perhaps even Truckton, although I was under the impression that Truckton was a Truck built from the remnants of an alien spacecraft that crashed in the desert and was brought to life by unexplainable solar activity cascading down from the Milky Way's creamy nougat centre - having said that, the story of Truckton that I know and just related came from the 80s so it is conceivable that Truckton grew weary with the world as an alien-craft-bastard-truck and used its gnarly and unquantifiable solar energy powers to transform itself once more, this time into a town. So we may or may not have come across the malcontent sentient being known as Truckton, it's difficult to say. Regardless, it/he was at the crossroads of two highways and consisted of four competing gas stations, a couple of motels, a couple of small take-out places attached to the gas stations, a formidable army of trucks (in the hundreds) parked or filling up, and a single cactus shop.
Twenty seconds and it was gone, faded away into the distance.

We finally arrived at Organ Pipe NM just after dusk, having to set up camp under the headlights of the car. In the morning we checked out the Rangers Station and danced a little jig before setting out on a small drive recommended by the Rangers.

The drive was shit-hot, both in the context of the heat and in that it was excellent. Of course, after icy, windy and crispy wintry nights, it was good to be back in shorts with the windows rolled down and working on a good sweat. The one-way loop was about an hour long, and unspoilt by modern man but for the winding dirt track, and another less winding, but still very much overgrown dirt path that is the old highway to Mexico.
















Ok, so there was also the occasional shelter and information post. Regardless, it was an hour well spent, though an experience that does not translate well into the telling. It was also a good chance for P to get behind the wheel and give B a bit of a much-appreciated break.


On our way out of the park we were stopped by Border Patrol (we were very close to Mexico - in fact the photo below is of the old 'highway' to Mexico). The car in front of us was getting the third degree from the Border Patrollians and Pedro in the back seat was getting really nervous. Finally when it was our turn, Patrolian #1 asked where we'd been.
B: Ahhh, the Organ ..Cactus... Park Place?
P1: Can you pop your trunk
Normally B could pop the trunk, but there seemed to be some kind of problem (the car was running) but after a couple of minutes of fussing and a feuding we finally got that bugger open. He took one look at our 'trunk' and sent us on our way, which is curious because our 'trunk' was absolutely chockas with boxes of food and wood and shit and our backseat was much the same. We had fun but Pedro and Miguel were a bit sweaty when we let them out. They thanked us and shot their pistollas into the air with as much stereotype as they could manage before running madly into the supposed freedom of the Unites States. Those guys were crazy.

Joshua Tree NP (5-6 Dec 06)

We had set the alarm early enough to catch the free motel breakfast and woke up to the extreme desert heat, the cause of which was an overzealous hand on the heater controls of the air conditioning the previous night/morning - it was so freaking hot in the room that it was actually a relief to step out into the hot desert sun. We managed to score a pile of breakfast, catch some more Zzzzz, and Pe cleaned herself up as B set about clogging the toilet enough to consider it completely and utterly stuffed and make a break for it before we encountered the wrath of the (presumably) severely underpaid cleaning staff.

The night had consumed many many miles of highway and we found ourselves in very different terrain. We were in south California, and the morning had turned the vague shadows and neon lights into desert, windfarms, highways, more trucks and steakhouses.


The tremendous upside of the long, long night was that we were only about one hour from Joshua Tree National Park. Now, B was a bit skeptical about the raw-interest value in seeing a National Park dedicated to a single type of tree. Sure, it might appeal to the hardest of hardcore nature lovers or U2 fans, but what did the park have to offer gentle people like us?

The answer was plenty. The JT is a bit of a strange old plant, looking a bit like the mutant offspring between a palm tree and a cactus, with some disco and heavy radiation thrown into the mix. They're quite distinct, kind of funky and grow in similar sparsity as many cactii. But the park has a lot more to offer than a single tree (or even hundreds of trees of a single type). After the thick forests, granite cliffs and icy ground, the desert was a strange and wonderful place to find ourselves. In the distance were rocky outcrops girted by piles of rock and dirt - the remains of a weaker strata pummelled into submission by the elements (and also the Finsky gang, whom the weaker strata owed much money).

Another thing was the incredible stillness. When we first exited our car and stretched our legs for another episode of 'what's for lunch?' we were engulfed by a strange and powerful silence. There was no machinery, no animals, not even wind to disturb the whole lot of nothing that wasn't to be heard. It lasted maybe 20 seconds, at which point an Air Force jet blasted across the landscape.

After our lunch we went for a quick walk, admiring the diversity of life that manages to survive quite easily in the harsh conditions of the desert. Then B decided to go off-road, quite assured that we could walk all the way around, a large rock outcrop.

It turned out to be much bigger than expected so some short-cutting was required, navigating the boulders and rocky jungle with a vague idea of where we were going (there was a path for the first ten metres, but he quickly lost it and discovered a new 'path'). It was a lot of fun, and when we made it through the rock-jungle we found ourselves on a nature loop.

The nature loop was called the 'Secret Garden' - or something, I don't remember, and though a quick Google search will yield the correct name, I can't be bothered. What do you think of those apples, huh?
*It was the 'Hidden Valley' you git.*
Be quiet you! Get back into your cage.
Anyway, the Garden was a completely enclosed naturocosm, surrounded by much of the same rocky outrcrop/jungle we'd just clambered through. It held a rich diversity of life, with plant species that had evolved in a different manner to their outside cousins. It was, in a way, the garden of eden of the desert world. Until, that is, some guy decided to blast away some of the rock with lots of dynamite, effectively altering everything about its conditios that was unique. Cool walk though.

Before the sun went down we drove up to a big-arse lookout from which you can see Mexico. A large part of the land below was an old salt-lake gone dry, which had some small lakes, salt plains and towns doing all sorts of funky things. However the smog really drowns out a lot of the detail.
That evening we were subjected to one of the finest sunsets of our lives, as the landscape was bathed and silhouetted by purples and pinks. Being in the desert we could find no better way to spend our time than sitting around the campfire, cook up some chilli con carne, strum the guitar and knock back a few rounds of Jack Daniels.


The sunrise too was mighty impressive, but marred by the fact that it meant we had to get up and do the packing thing again. By this stage we had pretty much perfected our camping arrangements (actually, we had perfected it on day three, back in Yosemite, but that's neither here nor there - ok so it's actually here and there, considering it's documented here, and actually happened there but I can't think of any other expression than 'Rome wasn't built in a day' which probably won't fit either) Rome wasn't built in a day we had pretty much perfected our camping arrangements... (Nope, that's not going to work at all. Not only does it sound stupid, but also entirely inappropriate in this context considering I'm saying it was pretty much done in a day.) Anyway, the point is that the campsite and sunrise were beautiful, we slept well, and packing up was quick an easy.

We went a bit over an hour out of our way to go to the 'Oasis of Mara'. This place was great, I mean really great. Totally worth going to - absolutely really fantastically great-as-Miles-Davis-is-cool great and it didn't suck at all, not even a little bit, which can't even be said for a lot of really, really, really amazingly supercool-funky-chicken great things. We went mostly because it boasted that you could almost guarantee to see a tarantuala in the area, but also because it sounded nice. It turned out it was once nice, quite a while ago. It was a natural spring that attracted and supported much life - a veritable garden of eden in the desert (I know I've said that before, but this is the real deal. Mainly because of the water and the people and loincloths and -
Ok so neither of them were a veritable garden of eden. I mean, this one didn't even have a snake or an apple or Dinosaurs - actually it may have had dinosaurs - but it did have a lot of heart, and sometimes that's all that we need).
It was a special place for the native people as well, who would recurrently return here for parts of the year. It sounded really nice. So it's a bit of a pity that the colonials tapped that spring and ran it dry. All that's left there now is a bunch of palm trees, some short growth and a couple of birds, all surrounded by a thick concrete path. There weren't any tarantualas either.

Our final two stops were to embrace a photo op and check out a Teddybear Chollo forest, which was actually cool. Kind of cute but vicious little bastards. But you'll learn all about that soon.

Oh, and did we mention U2?

The All-consuming Road (4 Dec 06)

We left very early in the afternoon, after a morning of camp clearing, food sorting, packing and general moseying of the loins, groins and coins. Our plan was to drive south to Kings/Sequoia National Parks and camp for the night, and our late departure meant we probably wouldn't see much of the Parks before nightfall.

But we couldn't leave without a shot of 'El Capitan and El Capitan, Bunglers in Crime'.

On the drive out we able to admire a new part of the park, and some nice views. We also drove past a bunch of blokes burning neatly piled logs of premium firewood, filling the air with a misty smoke that was less than conducive to driving. We stopped and asked one the pyro's if we could rescue some sweet, sweet free firewood from their fiery clutches, and save them some work.


"Sorry mate, since it's a national park, it's illegal to take wood out."
Even if you're just going to burn it?
"Even if we're just going to burn it. Last year a guy asked the same question while we had a Parks officer and the answer was clear: It's illegal."
Spewing.
"Personally, I don't care. I don't work for the Parks, we just get contracted out to do the burn job. If you drove past an unsupervised pile and picked off a bit, nobody would even notice."
I... see.
"Just don't get seen by anyone."
No... of course not.

Unfortunately, all the piles from that point on had either someone standing over them, or were in some way ablaze. DAMN YOU MURPHY !! YOU KILLED MY SON !!!

On the highway, we saw a lot of support for the United States, whether it was US or Confederate flags flying from flagpoles, houses, businesses, out of car windows, or mounted on the roofs, or bonnets of cars, trucks and campervans, or various different stickers or signs that gave the general idea that the person or persons who had erected the aforementioned stickers or signs was or were actively engaged in some kind of degree or method of support for the men and women soldiers of their country's military.

One thing of note is the drastic change of scenery and temperature on the US road. Our trusty Pontiac had an outside temperature gauge that we watched with keen interest, as the temp would jump or drop 10 to 20 degrees (F) just like that, only to change again a few miles later.

We made it to King/Sequoia NPs after nightfall, to find the gift shop and the restaurant open and serving. The restaurant served us Kids Meals and beers, a winning combination on all accounts. Kings/Sequoia is often overlooked by people who consider a small and less impressive version of Yosemite; although it does get steady visits from people who want to see big trees - Sequoias are the largest trees in the world (by volume), with General Sherman the largest tree in the world. We were here to see big trees, and our options lay in pitching a tent in the dark, staying the night and seeing General Sherman, and a hike if time permits, and have a long drive the next day; or, telling Kings/Sequoia to have intimate relations with themselves with their big trees, taking on the road in a mad drive tonight, and getting a jump start on each subsequent day.

Naturally, madness won out in the end. After all - big trees? Pah! Also, there were Mountain Lions in the area. While B was convinced that they were small enough to "fight" if they attacked, P was a tad more cautious. After all, she'd seen them and hadn't confused them with Bobcats.

The drive out of K/S was long, windy and slow, and forged the beginning of what was a long night of driving. And since the road was lined with the Sequoias, we got to see those big trees after all.

Once we hit the highway, the night becomes one long blur of high speeds, brief stops and too much talk back radio. Places and palatial mansions passing for cars were passed in a frenzy of curses and lane changes as we left great chunks of the night in our wake. People on the radio kept talking and talking and talking shit and some chick can't get off and some guy's gone septic and we don't think this guy's a doctor but he has a great voice and what's with their obsession with fucking (not the verb) burritos (though fucking burritos would be pretty funny). All we can do is shake our fists and demand that these voices return us to the music but to no avail. Shit shit shit. More trucks, more lanes, more roads, more towns. It's midnight and we're passing through some built up shit hole by the name of Bakersfield as though we're passing kidney stones. We pick up another cup of coffee and asked the drive-through staff if they knew of a hostel. All we can hear is the murmuring and gurgling of a group of three to four class-A fuckholes who direct us to hospitals and hotels and keep asking what a hostel is.
Newsflash dipshits: Motel 6 is not a hostel.
The night is taking its toll and we are as angry and delirious as we are tired and tenacious. The need for a cheap hostel is replaced by the need for a cheapish motel, but we have neither. We do have the road and music and the night and the combination keeps us strong with momentum. Gas stops are a relief for tired limbs and a chance to moisturise tired eyes. Our eyes are on the full-watch and a sign for Boron does not pass by unnoticed. It's a sign, a clear signal of our destiny. How could we find no respite in Boron. Nobody doesn't like Molten Boron! We're saved.
Boron, Boron, you magnificent bastard, Boron we love you, Boron I love you, make love to me Boron and bear me twenty beautiful, demented children. Oh Boron, what madness is this, where is your magnificence? Where is your golden tresses and bosomy embrace; how can there be nothing but dust and inbreeding and rabbits...

We held out as far as San Bernadino - where the madness truly took over and we could do nothing but sing and shout and get lost on the twisting highway system that sits over the city like an alien spider-demon. P found us a mission house on our map and we made a bee-line for it, though not necessarily walking the line. When the mission house started appearing on road signs in the shade of brown the denotes a historical landmark, we became suspicious that P had inadvertently lead us astray and into a strange part of town. Our brains were not functioning as they should have been and the world had become a cold and harsh place to live. B was rambling bad at this time, and his knee and buttocks were searing but this wasn't the part of town to stop and stretch for more than twenty seconds.

Cursing the name of S Bo we headed east, our alertness for motel signs on an extreme high. By 4:30am, and with more than fifteen hours of driving under our belt, we collapsed into a moderately-priced motel bed for a brief 5 hour sleep.

We weren't too tired to spot this in the carpark though...