Flagstaff, Arizona to Black Rock Campground (Joshua Tree National Park, California) - 354 mi. +

I wasn't really bummed about not getting to sleep in the tent one last time for this first leg of my mega trip. I can now put up the tent in 10-15 minutes and the novelty has worn off. As much as car sleeping has its disadvantages when the wind and temp are not in my favor, it is actually very cozy and comfortable and I can sleep really well most of the time. This is good news since my trip concludes with a trek back through all the states between me and Luna, who I already love (and fams, ya), and only one of those stops is at an AirBNB (Colorado Springs). The rest are car sleeps.

It was far too dark to put up a tent once I arrived at Joshua Tree National Park, so I rolled into my campsite, took the flashlight and toiletries, and headed toward the bathroom to ready myself for a nice, long car sleep. The facility was fine, though more beat up that previous camps, and I ran into several groups of youths who looked like they took a wrong turn from Coachella. I was only at Black Rock that night and left at 6:30 the next morning, but I didn't see anyone older than me while I was there. Oh, and that whole "quiet hours" thing? Not really a thing at Joshua Tree...at least not the one, single, very small sampling so no judgments should be made, night that I was there. There was lots of screaming and cackling and probably fire dancing but I had my barriers up so hell if I know.

Funny enough, the noise fit with the trees in the backdrop and all their creepy tentacleyness--add the stars and the flickering light from all the campfires and it all seemed about right with the cackles and shrieks. Plus it was a long drive and I was tired--it took very little time to fall asleep.

Why was it a long drive? Remember the aforementioned crapfest of Arizona highways leading to the Grand Canyon? I had to take that route again to get to California. I was thinking of stopping by some more sights down near Sedona, but I knew it would take me too long and I would definitely not make camp by nightfall if I tried. So, back on the "rough road" I went, though I guess at least this time I knew what to expect.

The drive is still pretty--lots of mountain forest trees and serene valleys in between all those peaks--but something went awry along the way. Google Map Woman, ever the trickster, told me to get off 40W (a real highway) and take County Route 66, which I did, though I always feel less comfortable on those tiny highways...if you pop a tire on 40W, AAA will find you. If you pop a tire on County Rt. 66, a werewolf will find you.

I drove for maybe 20 miles when I came to the end of the road: Closed for repairs. Take the detour, it says. Remember those freaky stories they made us read in high school, especially the ones where Puritans run amok and do bad things, especially in forests where evil always dwells (cover of night, yadda yadda, see "Young Goodman Brown," Hawthorne)? That was this godforsaken "detour." Of course.

It was as though the desert leeched every last drop of moisture out of the asphalt and it had started to crumble apart, perhaps to eventually crackle back to gravel and then dust. If I managed to pop a tire out here? Forget the werewolf. This was wendigo country. This was Satan with a whip wonderland.

The funniest part of all? It led me back to 40E/W...so, a loop. HA HA HA. Ha. I determined I should just figure out a new way, so pulled over at the next rest stop. After a little research, I decided to go further west to Barstow, then hook south on 247. It would be a longer journey, but I would still manage to make it to the campground before dark, though just barely.

Sooo, Barstow. Ever been? Don't. It was 95 degrees when I stopped in Barstow to get gas, and every surface looked sun blasted and bleached of all life. Remember my Sim City 2000 seminar? Barstow is a town that appears to be 80% industry...chain link fences, long warehouses, and debris, debris, debris. It instantly reminded me of the way Stephen King and Peter Straub described Oatley, New York, the fictional town our young hero, Jack, gets waylaid in on his journey across the states in The Talisman.

It is as though some places are out of tune with the rest of the world and the minute you arrive your hackles go up and you can't help but be on high alert. Just like there are "Feel Bad" movies (Eraserhead, Dead Ringers), there are "Feel Bad" towns. I am sure King and Straub were thinking of specific places when they made up "Oatley." Very considerate, not naming names.

Barstow: Avoid. Not sorry at all.

By the time I got to Joshua Tree there was just enough light to check the main board at the Black Rock ranger station to figure out where my camp was...after I finished up in the bathroom, and nodded goodnights to the firedancing hooligans, I settled in for the night and vowed to find a Starbucks the next morning, touchstones and talismans in our little worlds.