The Last Adventurer

As we rocketed up the eastern grade of the Interstate Eight, I had a good feeling about how things were turning out. It had definitely been a bummer that we hadn’t been able to follow through with our original plan. But, we had adapted and made changes despite everything that had happened, and as a result, we were going to be in a position to see the shower in a matter of hours. As we slowly crawled up the 79 toward Julian, I noticed that Pink was being unnaturally quiet.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Eh.” She said slowly. “I feel carsick.”

“No problem!” I replied cheerily as I pulled the car over at a convenient turnout. “I packed the first-aid kit right here! Let’s get you some motion sickness pills!” I wasn’t worried about the motion sickness ruining our evening, because I had been prepared. Again, my brain thought things were going to be fine.

Once she had fortified herself with the pills, we continued on through the dark wilderness. As we rounded Lake Cuyamaca our visibility dropped to zero. We had blundered into a thick fogbank of low hanging clouds. Nonplussed, I turned on the fog lamps. Instead of the harsh, reflected unbalanced light, a cozy yellow glow lit the road ahead. Minutes later, we were out of the passing moisture, and once again, the stars lit the nighttime sky. Seconds later we were back in another fogbank. I gritted my teeth and waited. It would be frustrating to think that we had traveled all of this way only to have our vision obscured by clouds. Several minutes later, we were slaloming down a pass, and the stars again illuminated the slanting hillsides, and I relaxed. The only thing that interrupted our descent to the desert was the constant stops we made for Pink’s motion sickness.

We reached the desert, and I made the only turn I hoped was necessary. I swung onto the S-2. The Laguna Mountains blocked the ambient city light from the west from San Diego. El Centro was roughly ninety or so odd miles to the East, and mostly blocked by the desert canyons in between. I was forty-five miles from the freeway, and I wanted to keep its noise – and light as far away as possible.

“So, where do you want me to stop?” I asked Pink once we were two miles down the S-2.

“What? You don’t know where you’re going?” She asked incredulously.

“Well, not in particular.” I admitted. “It’s been like five years since I’ve been to this exact part of the desert, and it is pitch black right now, so its not like I can look over there and say ‘hey, that looks like a good spot’, you know?”

“Oh.” She said disappointedly. “I just thought you had a spot, that’s all.”

“It’s not a big deal. I mean, the Anza-Borrego has hundreds of miles of dirt roads. I just figured we’d pull over, head up one and camp. I’m sure any place along here is as good as another, provided we’re not smack next to someone.” I replied.