The soft crunch of sediment beneath our dusty boots. On feet, the sand clings, as if it has a chance at a life in cooler climates upon enduring the length of that hike. That weekend. The sun had almost risen to high noon, and it was time for a road side luncheon. With a camp fully packed, it was onward to the next sight.
North of the Salton Sea, we traversed south along its east coast. Stopping at a beach of decayed fish was some ish. Trudging through bones on the shoreline… Not quite what the real estate moguls had in mind. When they invested their fortunes in grand resort visions. But there we were, contemplating the changes of the land. The worst case scenario in the world of runoff, we stood there in amazement. Yet such is Southern California. One mirage to the next.
Further south to Niland and inland to Slab City, the heat remained, yet we were that much closer to the next campsite. Beers, wine, cigarettes. Buds, chili, tourists. Haystacks, clay, paint. Salvation Mountain. The Mountain was one of the most prolific examples of personal legacy I’d seen in recent years. One man with a late-forming love for Jesus wanted to spread this admiration to the world, and so, lived in a trailer deep in the desert, creating a structure that can be seen from satellite, to be enjoyed by those from anywhere and everywhere.
North of the Salton Sea, we traversed south along its east coast. Stopping at a beach of decayed fish was some ish. Trudging through bones on the shoreline… Not quite what the real estate moguls had in mind. When they invested their fortunes in grand resort visions. But there we were, contemplating the changes of the land. The worst case scenario in the world of runoff, we stood there in amazement. Yet such is Southern California. One mirage to the next.
Further south to Niland and inland to Slab City, the heat remained, yet we were that much closer to the next campsite. Beers, wine, cigarettes. Buds, chili, tourists. Haystacks, clay, paint. Salvation Mountain. The Mountain was one of the most prolific examples of personal legacy I’d seen in recent years. One man with a late-forming love for Jesus wanted to spread this admiration to the world, and so, lived in a trailer deep in the desert, creating a structure that can be seen from satellite, to be enjoyed by those from anywhere and everywhere.
a bit of Salvation
The level of details observed at the mountain rightfully warranted tourists. (Google: Salvation Mountain) The artful architecture intersects with the colors of an Easter egg. Painted trees co-habitate with caves and dunes. A colorful keeper to the gate of Slab City: an off-grid trailer park, organized into neighborhood(s) of artists, squatters, hippies escapists of society alike. Bartering for cash, building masterpieces from raw garbage and heckling the “housies” that have traveled from their air-conditioned lives in the outside world.
An odd type of character one chooses to respect. The free spirits that don’t need much. The way it should be. It seems they’ve found the key. That crunch of the sand is something to be savored that deep in the desert. The silence, minus the wind, is something to be cherished. The art that exists only for the sake of itself. Its enjoyment. There’s nothing there. But everything. And there are us tourists, touring the wastelands of self-expression. Ninety degrees with a breeze, followed by a night flight of wine.
Horrible live music, warm liquor, makeshift photo booths. It was time for Prom. The walk there, energized by tequila shots and an unexplained second wind. The sun takes it out of you, but the campfire brings it back a bit. Good company yields good spirits, and a good (phenomenal) vegetarian chili cures fatigue like super glue on an open wound.
An odd type of character one chooses to respect. The free spirits that don’t need much. The way it should be. It seems they’ve found the key. That crunch of the sand is something to be savored that deep in the desert. The silence, minus the wind, is something to be cherished. The art that exists only for the sake of itself. Its enjoyment. There’s nothing there. But everything. And there are us tourists, touring the wastelands of self-expression. Ninety degrees with a breeze, followed by a night flight of wine.
Horrible live music, warm liquor, makeshift photo booths. It was time for Prom. The walk there, energized by tequila shots and an unexplained second wind. The sun takes it out of you, but the campfire brings it back a bit. Good company yields good spirits, and a good (phenomenal) vegetarian chili cures fatigue like super glue on an open wound.
messaging from Slab City
The "wild west" is an understatement. There are more words to describe this commune, but I had enough time to keep it short.
The hungover exploration of the desert on the other side of the Sea, an attempt at a glimpse of the #SuperBloom, a smoothie made from dates. Hot, hot sun. Plant-fueled discovery of derelict skate spots, caterpillar-infested fields & rare shade for a picnic.
Keep driving. Keep stopping. There’s no right way. Just drink water, and put one foot in front of the other.
- 7Ply Epic
The hungover exploration of the desert on the other side of the Sea, an attempt at a glimpse of the #SuperBloom, a smoothie made from dates. Hot, hot sun. Plant-fueled discovery of derelict skate spots, caterpillar-infested fields & rare shade for a picnic.
Keep driving. Keep stopping. There’s no right way. Just drink water, and put one foot in front of the other.
- 7Ply Epic
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