Carpentaria To Joshua Tree

Frozen waffles this morning – no need for a toaster — amazing how well a cast iron frying pan and a saucepan lid work.

There was a tag on our campsite number post  . . . “#49 – Reserved for Tonight”.  Erm . . . weren’t we number 48?  We counted them off last night.  Another look … and sure enough this was 49 . . . 48 across the road and over one was a perfectly accessible site which would have been a cinch to park in . . . even in the dark.  No explanation as to why the Parks people had suddenly switched sides when numbering Odd and Even sites.  Good job there were tons of empty spots last night – wouldn’t have been much fun having someone banging on the door at three in the morning demanding their spot.  The Park Rangers must have wondered , but  they politely didn’t say anything other than “Good Morning”, but probably thought “Crazy Canucks!”

More spectacular high winding road and dramatic coastline, but yet again the light and/or lack of pull outs made photo taking useless.

Oooo!  Elephant Seal View Point!  But it was crammed with vehicles and people wielding cameras, so we carried on.  And just a mile or so further on we were rewarded with a wide parking area and just a couple of RVs.  We made sandwiches and sat in the sun watching the waves as lazy hawks drifted the air currents right in front of us and egrets posed theatrically on the rocks.  Just down the beach a family of elephant seals reposed in the sun . . . indistinguishable from logs except for the occasional twitch and wobble of the nose.

Disappointingly, Hearst Castle was closed  . .. but what a spot he’d picked to build . . . high in the hills overlooking the valley and ocean.  Passed through Weymouth with an intriguing sign for Nitt Witt Ridge!  To be honest, the countryside did resemble Dorset and Exmoor with green hills and rocky tors – however that illusion was shattered when a clump of prickly cactus or an oasis of palm trees suddenly hove into view.

Carmel township . . . . wonder if Clint Eastwood is still mayor? Gorgeously tiled villas, rock walls cascading with bougainvillea, views over a wickedly rugged coast.  A sign on the roadside “Retreat … Deep Books … Sanctuary … Holy Granola!”

Morro Bay – the campsite appears to be a continuation of the golf course, not helped by the fact we missed the camp turn off the first time!  Massive Morro Rock dominates the bay, rather like a miniature Rio de Janeiro.  The estuary was abuzz with wildfowl . . .  herons and egrets standing like statues, eagle-eyed . . .  Buffle-heads bobbing like toy ducks . . . a merganser or two . . . and flights of cormorants and pelicans . . . but the sound was amazing . .  a symphony of calls.  There were kayaks to be rented . . . and for the budget-minded who still wanted the convenience of a … well, ‘public convenience’ . . . there was this lovely colourful little model on its very own trailer.

The next morning we drove past the California Men’s Colony with watch towers and barbed wire-topped walls.  I guess we don’t pick up hitchhikers, especially ones in orange jump suits!

Ranch country . . . miles upon miles of hilly grassland with cows happily chewing under wide branching shade trees.  Buelton … apparently home of the Split Pea Soup.  Hmm considering the Greeks and Romans have been cultivating this legume for millennia (around 400 BC) . .  . the peas porridge of nursery rhyme fame and Habitant soup . . . I’m inclined to doubt this. <grin>

Carpentaria . . .  extremely popular with campers from Los Angeles (only 100 km) so it seems we were lucky to get in.  A shoe horn would have been a handy tool as there was so little wiggle-room – especially for a truck and trailer.  Lots of darting about shouting instructions . . .  “Two feet this way” . .  . “Watch that RV nose” . .  . “6 inches more”.  And of course there’s always an audience . . . sitting in deck chairs, sunhats, beverage in hand.  Wise enough not to offer advice but ready to commiserate when something goes wrong.

Settled rattled nerves with a restorative cup of tea on the beach . .  . fine white sand with piles of curiously-shaped sandstone rocks.  Bit of a shallow lagoon at one end.  Reported to be ‘the safest beach in the world’ . . .  don’t you just love these claims?  Looking at the thunderous waves rushing up the beach, I’m somewhat skeptical . . . don’t think I’d be anxious to take small children or dogs for a paddle.  In among the usual shore birds, one larger specimen stood out . . . it’s impossibly long, curved beak almost as long as the bird itself.  Google search … ah!  A long-billed Curlew.  Carefully pacing about the wet sand, probing below the surface for small crustacians.  Another curious creature could be seen stalking the shoreline – a Lesser-Hatted, Canvas-Backed Metal Detectorist.  My favourites though were the flocks of tiny Sanderlings . . . scurrying down to the surf line, then rushing back up the sand to avoid getting their toes wet . . . little legs going so fast they seem to glide like ball bearings.  Could watch them for hours.

“Quick” said Glen as we BBQ’d burgers. . . “the sun’s going down”.  It was too . . . . a masterpiece in shades of orange and black silhouettes.

Eastwards now . . . well, a bit of hair-raising freeway first, but we still have fingernails.  Unattractive dry hills skirting around L.A. covered with small oil rigs and round, flat storage tanks – with unlikely place names like Soledad Canyon and Olive View!  The highway climbs and climbs and climbs some more.  Much nicer now, Lemon groves – both sides of the road as far as the eye could see . .  . changing to the gold of oranges.

With it being a Friday night and most campgrounds full, we contacted a church halfway along the route to asked if it would be possible to park overnight and be gone by morning light.  No problem, replied the pastor . . . we planned to leave a donation.  As it turned out, we didn’t need it. Despite the endless, tedious stop-and-go of road works . . . the dog-eat-dog performance at the gas station where people brazenly cut in, including a Mary Kay representative in tight skirt and sparkly pink stilettos who then minced purposefully into the store without a backwards glance.  We decided to push on to Joshua Tree.

It’s a different world out here.  High flat, flat, flat plateau . . . Joshua Trees and scrubland with a rim of arid mountains waaay in the distance and sudden outcrops of rocks glowing in the late afternoon sun.   Dozens and dozens of old RVs, Trailers and wooden shacks sprinkled about like children’s building blocks . . . some derelict and abandoned . . .  although many are occupied.  I guess the living is inexpensive.

As the sun dipped down behind the mountain ridge and dusk fell, we descended into Joshua Tree.  Craig texted us instructions, but in the dimming light we twice drove past the well-hidden sandy road, before a successful turn.  But finally, there in front of us was the dark figure of Craig waving from the middle of the road, and we glided into the wide open sweep of driveway with a sigh of relief.