Caruthers Canyon

Towards the New York Mountains

A spring weekend morning, an unexplored road, and a 4x4 with new tyres is a sure recipe for happiness. The trusty 'Hiking in the Mojave Desert' won, yet again, with another spot-on recommendation. 

Caruthers Canyon reminds me of very old descriptions of canyons in the desert southwest - the isolation and unspoiled beauty, the trees, flowers and peacefulness. (Probably those 19th and early 20th century authors did not have the near-constant noise of planes overhead though.) 

She gets a bit bumpy aye.

We could camp here. Look! It has a table!

This haven of pine trees, granite, and wildflowers is just three hours from home. Two of those are over dirt roads, of which some are graded and not too washboardy, and some are tracks that would make you yelp. (Barreeeee!) 

We picnicked in the shade of an oak tree. These desert species are non-deciduous and have sturdy little leaves, almost like holly leaves. The warm sun on nearby junipers made a fragrant accompaniment.

Then we walked up the track to the camping - and immediately wished we had driven up there before lunch. The pines shelter a few primitive campsites, and the granite outcrops are all sorts of picturesque. There are grizzly-bear-prickly-pears sprawling low to the ground, and stony hills rising on three sides. 

We could buy it. Look! It has a wall!

On the way out from the canyon, we saw 20 acres for sale and had to be quite stern with each other. We already own an ample number of tumbledown out-of-the-way properties. (Surely just one more couldn't hurt?)

Our drive home took us along the Mojave Road, a 500-year old trail westwards through the desert. In many places it is sunken six feet or more below the level of the surrounding desert, and you have the feeling of being immersed, or of tunneling through sand. And my word, but the Mojave is astounding in bloom this year. Hillsides purple with sage or golden with - eh, IDK, yellow flowers, I guess. Lots of globe mallow making fields of orange, and splashes of day-glo cactus blooms and paintbrush.

There's something soul-cleansing about being out in the middle of that rich dense everything, all calmly going about its normal occasions. Sometimes it's even enough to last me all week.   

Lake Mead NRA

Sunday breakfast at the Lake Mead Marina, Lake Mead National Recreation Area 9 April 2017

One gull is enough ...

Dust storm

So I drove home a little early the other day. If they're going to have near-zero visibility on the freeway I'd prefer not to compound that with the regular rush-hour high jinks that keep my commute such a consistently thrilling adventure.

And because I was driving, I couldn't take photos. So I will try and paint you a picture.

There was sand drifting on the freeway in places, rippled where the wind was sculpting it into the embryonic beginnings of dunes. Squares of cardboard, palm leaves, drink cups: all sorts of light litter was airborne all around, caught high on chain-link fences or sailing overhead. Scraps of biodegrading plastic soared and twirled and generally haunted the road like unquiet spirits. Or sea creatures - I saw one piece of white, maybe five feet long and one wide, undulate across in front of me in disconcertingly eel-like fashion.

I could not see the hills, and little stones and bits of grit flicked against the windscreen. It seemed like more of them each moment. The air was greyish brown under a flat and murky sky. In higher and more exposed sections of the road, the wind caught the car and tugged it closer to the lane edges than I would like.

But I got home okay, obviously, and the next morning there was fresh snow on the mountains and the southwest hills were limned in light under lowering clouds.