Wash Me
The Jeep bludgeons through the rain. There are more aerodynamic and far less skittish vehicles to wrestle with on a wet highway at speed but, as I recall (here), those engender polite chats with the highway patrol. Out of its element at seventy something on the rain slick 201 snaking across the eastern limits of the Los Angeles hellsprawl, the day began in the high desert heaven of Joshua Tree National Park. There, the Jeep was wholly in its element, bouncing through the mud of the back trails after last night’s rain, as I waited for the girls to arrive.
Would you drive fourteen hours and nine hundredish miles to walk through a desert? The short answer is yes, if Marcia and Amanda will be hiking there too. A day together now requires long drives, airfare and Venn diagrammed calendars. The empty nesting thing is its own challenge under the best of circumstances, and the Fortress of Solitude awaiting at the end of this drive back only adds to it. It would be easy to be angry at the Quad City Times connivers for their comparative familial comfort these days. But while anger is easy, it is also toxic.
Better to reflect on the day together, marveling at the unique landscape. The moonscape vistas. The precariously eroded rock formations. The small flowers, blooming after the recent rains. The clever vegetation, defending water supply with the prickliness of a Stamp Erickson lawyer. President Clinton made this place a national park, and you can’t help but wonder if the present occupant at 1600 Penn has any appreciation for landscapes that don’t require $200,000 memberships.
The only disappointment, other than the farewells at the end, was we never saw a bighorn sheep. I’ve seen them while climbing several times and they are magnificent beasts with remarkable agility and strength. Though we kept our eyes peeled all day, we never saw one. That allowed the familiar comfort of a bad dad joke told by … well … me. As we talked of their ability to avoid our sight on the drive back to the visitor center, I offered “they’re sheepish”, as an explanation. Groans duly followed. Some things are resistant to change.
The JTNP mud on the Jeep is one of those things, and three hundred miles of seventy mile per hour rain on the way back doesn’t wash all of it away. Scrolling through the satellite radio to find something to help me stay awake, I come across a fairly remarkable bit of new information. Howard Stern has Cheap Trick in the studio and it is immediately clear this guy I don’t like so much is a long and deeply knowledgeable fan of a band that’s one of my enduring favorites. A hundred miles in the rain north of SLO goes by with the comfort of the hard-working boys from Rockford displaying their customary lack of taking themselves too seriously.
It’s a good end to a solitary bad end of a long and wonderful day. They are all unique landscapes, these things we call lives. It’s best to appreciate the rain, not take the conniver erosion too seriously and watch for the small flowers along the way.
