California, the paywall state. Imagine a long strip of paradise where everything fun costs dignity, and the places left kissed by god are on fire. You can still hear whispers of the siren song that called most of the world’s hottest, most insecure, people here. California has America’s fruited plains, purple mountains, and shining seas. It’s worth seeing while it’s still attached to our continent , and even more worth it to have a place to go back to after. 

California rolled out her welcome the minute we started blazing the Mojave stretch of I-40. A raging lithium battery fire had shut down the highway linking LA to Vegas diverting a torrent of loose-gripped gamblers and weird families to the eastbound side of the interstate that backed it up for 120 miles.  As we whizzed by you could see all stages of grief forming in the people piled back in their cars. It was easy for those near the front of the jam to be in denial, but as the miles peeled by the poor souls would stand on their car roofs begging for salvation to be just out of eyesight. I’d see the odd person wearing a makeshift t-shirt kafia on their head striding sweaty and trepidatious toward who knows where. A minute would pass and I’d see a car without a driver pulled over to the dusty shoulder.  Anyone familiar with that stretch of road knows there’s only a smattering of dinky fuel stations dotting the Mojave and EVERY single one of them was mobbed like it was Mad-fuckin-Max. —Given the heat I imagine for an unlucky few it may have been the end of times– Not in the fray ourselves we were still in need of fuel, and our rig was too big to wiggle between the throng of frenzied motorists. I stood in line with the cars under the cruel desert sun, gas can in hand, praying the same as everyone that they didn’t run out of the good stuff. Free enterprise was alive and well that day, it cost me sixty-five American dollars to fill up that gas can. Back on the road, with renewed purpose, we made it safely and uneventfully to our campground near the wind-swept military industry town of Palmdale and thanked the huge-titted pagan California gods that we weren’t headed east. We’d spend the next couple weeks beneath the shadow of the San Gabriel mountains, the other side looking down on the Valley of the Angels. 

A photo of 1-40 cutting through the Mojave Preserve. Vast stretches of nothing broken up by fuck all

The next two weeks were some of the hottest and most unforgiving, the unfiltered California sun testing our AC compressors like an insecure god tests his most pious. I would spend my days swimming laps and searching half seriously for a job as I tried to ignore the swelter. But by the weekend we made trips to Universal and Knotts Berry Farm. 
 
Tonally I know I can come off a bit bleak, but I have a lot of warmth towards fast metal death traps. Strap me to a fuckin bullet and shoot me at the moon, and make sure to go so fast I see stars. Knotts provided us a bounty the likes of dive coaster Hangtime or the launcher Xcelerator. Universal though, not so much. The trip to Universal was mostly to go and see the fabled Super Mario World and backlot tours. Again, as cynical as I may be, I still love that little plumber. Mascots may just be anthropomorphized swag ads, but Mario represents two things I will find fondness for my entire life; the Italians and fun – well-polished gameplay loops. Even the worst Mario game washes the best EA game. –And the music? Fuck, just pop on some Gusty Garden Galaxy and soar through it’s sweet triumphant verses.– The queuing at Bowser’s castle is an easter egg hunt that will make you wish the line would last forever, and the Mario Kart ride that the queue leads to might make you renew that wish. The ride itself doesn’t live up to the awe and shuhari on display in the detailed theming. The same can be said for the Toadstool Cafe, a popular dinning attraction, the theming immaculate…. food was mid. 

Our time in SoCal sped to a close, gassed up and ready to go we set out from Soledad at the predawning hour of five. This drive wasn’t the first opportunity for steep grades with thin roads, but some drops were considerably longer than we’d come across back in Missouri. Big Red, the indomitable beast she is,  with her twelve thousand pound cargo in-tow made easy work of eight percent grades. The smell of smoldering brake pads and vaporized coolant meant our fellow travelers weren’t faring as well, but it seems that on stretches of highway like that the acrid miasma is permanent. The thick indelible smell means there’s no way of knowing who is about to turn into a steel bullet. After the descent and several hours of flat valley along the 5, where we saw the incoherent heraldry of the marooned California Trump voter and their pleas for more water, we finally started to cross over the elk-swarmed mountains, along the San Luis Reservoir, to Morgan Hill. – I’d love to go into detail about our two weeks in Morgan Hill, and I’m sure you would love to read every gossipy word, unfortunately, circumstances leave the nature of our trip classified. –Though we did see an entire garlic-themed town like it was a  fuckin pre October revolution Baku.–

All praise be the Grand Garlic fire! May it’s light and pong keep the strigoi at bay.

We skipped town early again on Saturday and scuttled off to Yosemite.

• Authors Note: I’m attempt to not abuse our fragmented attention spans by splitting California into more than one piece. When I’m caught up with our treks we will get more nitty and gritty with the details and musings, but I’m trying to move through quickly so we can get modern ASAP.