Chapter 4
The Salton Sea
Niland, CA Jan 21-27
Emerging from the Indio Walmart, I realized that the wind had really picked up since arriving. Heather and Jake were fretting as the camper was rocking from side to side in the gusts while thick dust was blowing down from the nearby hills and the perimeter desert. After shopping, we passed by a polo club we had seen on the way into town, hoping to see the advertised match, but only one polo-pony remained on the field, the rest having retired to the clubhouse for early dust-free gins, I suppose. The wind was really up now - it seemed about 35 knots with higher gusts and the dust was everywhere! It had been a cloudless day, but now it got rather dark. Visibility was down and the traffic slowed accordingly. Being a sailor, I just love tailwinds and the diesel didn't have to work hard at all during our 2-hour drive south to Bashford's RV park, although we were heeled over at times.
The wind had subsided by the time we checked in to a “dry camping” spot – there were no powered/watered ones available - and once again we found ourselves beside a huge rig with small noisy dogs. Bashford's is a nice friendly park with a somewhat funky atmosphere, but there are always a few that like to remain grumpy for their remaining days on earth. Our neighbours had been coming to the same spot for 22 years, so it was a safe bet they didn't like change all that much. Our arrival reduced the size of their patch of gravel considerably, and their little rat-dogs went berserk whenever Jake ventured out of the camper (tethered of course – there are Rules, you know), so they didn't seem all that welcoming to us, in contrast to most folks we encountered there. Anyway, we made the best of it and quickly located our friends from Squamish, Karl and Maureen, with whom we had spent time in Mexico. Jake too was reunited with his dog-friend Cody and we caught up on all the goss, as they say in NZ. We did dog walks each day, a swim most afternoons, and of course the inevitable happy hour when we got to know some fellow travellers.
Bashford's is blessed with natural hot mineral springs and has delicious soaking tubs as well as swimming pools, both warm and hot. Lacking any irrigation, the region is quite rocky with little vegetation. No grass at all, which Jake found less than suitable for his needs. Some of the residents were full-time locals who seemed to find sporadic work on the nearby railway or at the park itself. Running since the early 60s, the park had picked up quite a few abandoned trailers and motorhomes over the years. Some were dragged off to the adjacent boneyard and some became permanent homes that were never to move again. Little decks and fences are built around them, and the common tacky garden ornaments seem somehow suitable here. Mixed with the year-rounders are the all-winter folks, who either drive their rig down from northern climes and get installed for the season, or simply leave it there all year and drive down in their car. Transients like ourselves tend to be a bit younger and are definitely in the minority, but most who spend the whole winter in one spot naturally grow a close circle of friends. The swimming pool and adjacent hot tub were good conversation pits, and the 'permanents' had organized lots of social events programmed for whole the season. Exercise groups, dances, music nights, cards, horseshoes tournaments and the like filled the notice board. We took advantage of the book swap library, took Jake on long walks along the foot of the Chocolate Mountains (they do look the part), found traces of a defunct landlocked fish farm and the remains of a stone cottage built maybe by an early goat herder. I can't imagine any other farm animal surviving the desert climate here. Once again we are reminded that we are not in Canada, with the dull thuds of artillery fire reaching us each night from the firing range over the hill to the east and pairs of fighter jets occasionally whooshing overhead. We took the time to do laundry, tidy the camper, plan future destinations, and generally take a breather as we had really been on the go for quite awhile. It was all very pleasant. Then one morning as Jake and I emerged from the camper for his morning constitutional, our neighbour pounced on me and demanded to know if Jake had left the large deposit he was pointing at between our rigs. He claimed that it had been put there within the hour. Still warm maybe? No, our boy has not been out yet today, I replied truthfully, but he clearly didn't believe me. “I'll shoot the bastard if I see him” he replied, neck reddening and smoke pouring out of his ears. I didn't worry much until I saw the gun rack in his truck, and given that his well-deserved coronary didn't strike him dead then and there, I wisely chose to seek another camping spot.
What a difference a good neighbour makes! We found another site with electricity amongst cheerful “little rig” people. One woman on her own just back from a 4 day adventure out in the desert and a couple also planning lots of exploration, both in camper vans. We had a very pleasant 6 days there at Niland, and finally said goodbye to our friends, old and new, and headed south again. The nights are still cold!
With some notable exceptions, rural inland California towns don't seem particularly attractive and the inhabitants not too happy. The infrastructure seems a bit crumbly, explained partially by their State constitution which was amended decades ago to cap property tax at a very small yearly percentage increase, regardless of ascending property values. They are also referendum-mad, requiring (and seldom getting) the voter's nod to create any new programs. State employees had in the past been offered fat pensions in their contracts, and present administrations are struggling to meet their obligations as the number of retirees increases. Did I hear “bankrupt”? So with these cheery thoughts to discuss as we roll along the road past dilapidated, dusty towns, we once again pull into the supermarket and do our best to bail them out. Lots of Hispanics here in El Centro, a bit east of San Diego and just a few miles from the border, and Spanish signage is everywhere. I don't know a lot about the situation, but I think that culturally and socially the Mexicans have much to offer the white Americans if they could just open their hearts a bit more. As these thoughts are taking form, we pass through another Border Patrol checkpoint with its inevitable cramped paddy-wagon standing by. There are lots of these inspection stations, some located well north of the border.
Now, loaded with provisions, we cross into Arizona at Yuma, just in time for the 7th annual Bluegrass Festival. See you there!
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