Crystal Cove State Park in California. I found it in a magazine. The picture alone was the selling point. I had been here prior, the summer before when I camped three miles up in the hills and bluffs alongside the ocean. Up there, remotely camping, with the ocean ahead and below on one side and the glow of Los Angeles in the distance behind me was a truly unique camping experience. I was in a super busy area of the country but found a secret area of peace and solitude.
This summer I was back at Crystal Cove, just for the day. I had left Ricky’s home in the morning, when he left for work. Today I needed to make my way towards Las Vegas where I would fly the next morning back to Chicago. Ricky had recommended that I save my drive to for later in the evening, because if I tried during the day, the roads would be ridiculously busy.
I started talking to someone at Crystal Cove, who also recommended I leave later, so I decided just to make a day of it at Crystal Cove. Although the campsites right next to the beach are very popular, the beach at Crystal Cove is not. The park is located in Laguna Beach, and so people chose the more popular beach named after the town. That’s where all the action is. Here it’s a little quieter. Crystal Cove has a series of trails in the hills and bluffs, the beach, and the camping. It’s all accessible from one main parking lot. It’s a very clear and well managed state park.
When I pulled into the lot, I parked my car at the far end where it was quiet and still, where I could be free to spread out, because my first order of business was to clean out my car and pack up. I had lived a month out of this car. I had things tucked in every nook and cranny. I had camping supplies, souvenirs, food, sand, and all sorts of odds and ends I had accumulated.
I pulled out my suitcases and spread them open in the parking lot. I opened all four doors of the vehicle and I began to organize. I thought the whole scene looked ridiculous, as I was so spread out, so I took a photo.
As I pulled out my pins and stickers for Capitol Reef and Arches, I began to get sentimental. It seemed so long ago, yet it was on the same trip. I had traveled so far and seen so many things. I tried brushing the red Utah sand out of my car, which had accumulated around the driver’s seat. I gathered up all my park maps from Saguaro all the way to Great Basin and secured them together in a bag from Disneyland. I had my Rocky Mountain tie-dye t-shirt, my sweet L.A. kicks, the flyer on the plague from Lake Tahoe— I figured I could toss that. I found my map of Nevada with the ghost towns highlights by the park ranger —I wanted to keep that. I had two SD memory cards full of photos, a tin cup from the general store in Moab so I could cook oatmeal over the fire, and my journal with pages exploring my thoughts on the Canyonlands.
There were so many pieces of my adventure to pack up, and it was all so meaningful. Everything held a story, and I felt very accomplished. I had completed the journey, and I had grown in many ways. I could say I grew in experience while also growing in understanding of myself, life, my canyons, and the world around me. Along with that my imagination grew, having visited many different environments and landscapes I had never before experienced, my ability to reimagine, revisit, and wander around these places in my mind would now be in my capacity.
When I was done packing up everything I put on my flip flops and swimming trunks and headed down the short sandy path to the beach. Crystal Cove is named appropriately. The beach is located in a cove and to me crystal is congruent with the beauty this place presents. Some associate the term clear with crystal. The water is nice but not clear as crystal. To me crystal also seems delicate and fine, almost like a gem, and this place is a gem. Its fine and exquisite in beauty —blue sky, blue ocean, sandy beach, sharp rocks with the waves dancing dramatically upon them. I took in the deep salty air, drug my toes into the sand, listened to old man ocean endlessly speak. I layed down and felt the salty breeze blow across my skin and the sun surround me in warmth.
After resting there a while the sky grew cloudy and the air brisk. The wind caused beautiful waves to crash into rocks extra tall and crescendo into the air on the sides of the beach. I went for a walk, and saw something dark pop out of the water a short distance off and remain. It was a seal swimming toward land in the foamy sea.
Out in the distance above the water light beams broke through the clouds sending spotlights down upon the ocean, reminiscent of the beams shooting into the dark crevices of the Canyonlands and illuminating the mountains peaks in the Rocky Mountains. They served as a reminder of what I had learned throughout this trip, how God desires to illuminate the dark places in our lives, make them beautiful, and take us out of our canyons leading us to the mountain tops, which are places of fulfillment and peace.
The ocean, the way it roars, the way it endlessly speaks, the way it crashes, soothes, refreshes, evokes feeling, and is always moving is a reminder of the life God has breathed into the world. Not only that, but the ever present waves remind us of the every constant presence of God in all of nature. God I believe is the author of movement-—to feel the breeze and hear the ocean is to feel the movement of God.
When the wind grew even stronger and the air cooler I decided to return to my car and begin the final step of my summer adventure. The plan was to drive to Red Rock Canyon National Conservation Area just outside of Las Vegas to camp and wake up early for my flight back to Chicago the next morning. There however would be a few unexpected occurrences that would add just a little more story to be told.
Thank you for joining me on my summer adventure of 2016 here on my blog. Although there is more story to be told, this completes my blogging on this particular trip. To join me on the remainder of the journey and learn more about the adventure thus far, read my book Canyonlands coming out Christmas 2018!
“Visit the old Los Angeles zoo and see the wild Josh in captivity. The Josh is a very adaptable amiable creature who can be found in prairies, temperate forests, alpine tundras, and dry deserts. The Josh is native to North America but it is believed to be an ancestor of those from the Iberia peninsula. The Josh is an omnivore and gatherer whose diet consists of meats, vegetables, nuts and berries, breakfast cereals, and tacos. When threatened the Josh is known to retreat and is rarely found to be aggressive.“
Another couple were walking near to me. We exchanged small talk about the intense wind and thick fog which came over the place. Just moments earlier, little further inland, the sky was blue and warm. But here it was cold, windy, and all mysterious-like. We could hear the ocean and smell the salt air, but the fog and mist was so thick that we couldn’t see water at all. All we could see along this road were the trees that grew on the sides, which had been so consistently blown by the wind that all of their branches had grown in one direction.
This place was fascinating, but was by no means relaxing. It seemed at any moment this lighthouse could fall off the cliffs edge into the sea hidden somewhere below the thick fog. I knew this was not going to happen, but it was astounding to imagine the lighthouse keeper having to live out here back in the day, so isolated from everyone else, hidden in the fog for much of the year with the tumultuous weather all around. My attempt at imagining such a life inspired me to conjure up pieces of a story I considered writing, but I would eventually abandon that story, and those ideas would become but a ghost town.
At one point in the day, I came to a great overlook of the ocean. I looked down across the shoreline and could see the many cliffs and the very edge of California spilling into the Pacific. I noticed a path along the wispy wild grass. It descended down a hill among the cliffs to the water below. It was beautiful. I could see miles of beach and waves reaching for shore all over. The sun was warm, and the California coast was just plain golden. I got down to the water and was climbing over rocks to get to a cove where I saw a beach. When I approached the cove, I noticed something peculiar. Everyone was naked. There were maybe ten elderly, weathered, leathery, naked old men. Welcome to California! I turned around. I didn’t want to see anymore. I passed some young clothed teenage boys descending while I was ascending. Should I warn them? Nah, it’ll be a surprise.
I took this visit to Muir Woods as a preview to what I would eventually find in the future in the Redwood Forest National Park. Based on just the preview from the Muir Woods, I knew the Redwood Forest must be amazing and inspiring.
I knew I wouldn’t be in contact with rodents. It’s not in my liking to approach them, unless we are talking about an adorable golden-mantled ground squirrel posing for a picture in Bryce Canyon. Apart from that I didn’t foresee rodents being a concern. But fleas, on the other hand, well, I didn’t know a lot about flees except that they were insects and insects get around. So I stepped out of my car and drenched myself in deet, and then I soon forgot that the Plague was even an issue. I set up my tent in the company of tall pines. In the distance between the pines I could see the snow capped mountains of the Sierra Nevada. When camp was set up, I walked across the smooth paved campground road to a general store on the grounds. I wanted to inquire about the coin showers. I exchanged my dollars for coins, enough for me to have two complete shower cycles. 
Another way to enjoy Lake Tahoe is what I was doing that evening from the sand of one of its many beaches, feeling like I’d made to the ocean and had become a beach bum while at the same time looking up at the snow capped mountains feeling like a northern mountaineer. 
A final way I enjoyed Lake Tahoe was from one of the porches of the Baldwin and Pope Estates. There, just next to the trail I arrived on, and set up behind the beach, were these two estates, preserved as the Tallac Historic Site, managed by the U.S. Forest Service. The estates contained a collection of houses built in the late 1800s and early 1900s that were the private resorts for three social elite families of the San Francisco Bay Area. All of these buildings were composed of wood fashioned in one way or another, blending this rustic north woods style with tudor elements. The estates included the large summer cottages, accompanied with dark wooden shingles, and numerous guest houses and small log cabins for the tutor, groundskeepers, and servants. They were all tied together by well kept pathways and gardens. During the day, the buildings were open for tours, but I was there in the evening. They were all closed, but people were free to explore the grounds.
My journey along Highway 50 in Nevada was one of visiting ghost towns. As I left Hamilton, I drove the twelve rough miles back to Highway 50, and was relieved to get back to a paved road. Forty five miles later I rolled into the grand metropolis of Eureka, population 610. In Eureka, Highway 50 turns into Main Street, where one finds a hybrid ghost town and functioning county seat. I parked on Main Street and went for a walk. I found a brochure that led me on a self-guided tour of the downtown, taking me past the elegant Eureka Opera House, abandoned saloons, the hollow yet historic Colonnade Hotel, and other gems of the wild West. 
I finished my stroll with a visit to a Rains Market, a small grocery store on Main Street. I stepped inside and was greeted with classic Nevada. Of course it wasn’t enough for Rain’s to just be a grocery store. It had to be a little above and beyond, in a Nevada sort of way. It had taxidermy animals all along the walls above the shelves. There were deer, mountain goat and lion, and fish. Later, when I was looking at Google Maps, I noticed the place is labeled Rains Market and Wildlife Museum. How fitting.
Just like in Eureka, there was a pamphlet that led me on a self guided tour, but this one was hand written and copied. It told the history and significance of each building, explained how the mining system worked, told of how many young men who came to work the mines lived in a bunk house, how at its boom it had a population of just 250, yet they still had a town prostitute. It guided me to the mine supervisor’s house, the machine shop, and a big old mill. Each building was furnished, but it an haphazard unkempt way, as if one day people got up and left, and everything was left as is and wore with time. Although the buildings were blocked off from entry, I could look inside and see the titles of books left on the shelves and read the containers of products left around. It was fascinating. 
There was a little pathway next to the shop that led further up the hill. I wanted to see what I could find further up, but, as I walked, a snake slithered on the path before me. I was done. I drove back to my campsite, which was beautifully located at a hills edge, overlooking the desert valley and out to the mountains in the distance. I took a short walk from my campsite to the building housing the grand Ichthyosaur. The building was locked, but I could look inside and see the fossils. On the outside of the building, on the wall, was a large mural of an Ichthyosaur, which I took my picture with, realizing this was a once in a lifetime opportunity. Where else could I get my picture with an Ichthyosaur, except in the middle of Nevada? And when would I be back? 
A band of wild horses galloped through the sagebrush to my left. To my right, the dirt road crumbled off into a ravine. The sun was bright and hot, and I was out here by myself. If something happens to my car, I’m done for. Stranded in the scorching desert miles from anybody, this would be it. I had taken the unnamed and barely marked road from America’s Loneliest Highway, Highway 50, further into the remoteness of Nevada, seeking the ghost town of Hamilton. 
Eventually the hills gave way to a wide valley, and I came upon the ruins of Hamilton. The ruins were largely spread out and very diverse. I parked my car over to the side of the dirt road and I first came upon the remnants of a stone house. Slates of stone had been stacked ontop each other to create a building, but now only two adjacent walls remained. 
One had an arched doorway still in tact that was held in place by bricks seeming to defy the laws of gravity. In the near vicinity were other ruins of stone houses left barely recognizable, in piles of rock. Further in, I came upon some wooden structures. There were two buildings completely dilapidated except for their roofs just laying on the ground pointing upward.
building within the building had ominously broken glass windows. I looked up and the roof of the warehouse had holes every so often, evenly distributing light throughout the building. To me the place seemed to be an abandoned repair garage. The concrete floor was dusty and dirty and large empty tanks, tin barrels, and appliances littered the floor. I took a few steps in slowly. 
To add to the creepiness of the place, leaving the warehouse, I walked over to a small one room wooden shack, where in the doorframe hung a noose. What is going on? First an ominous warehouse, then a raven giving warning, and now a noose hung from a door frame.
My last stop in Hamilton was at the Hamilton Cemetery. Tombstones were dated from the 1870s to 1890s. One portion of the cemetery was enclosed in a gothic style short steel fence, something that looked like it had come right out of the backyard of Disney’s Haunted Mansion. 
Looking at them, you wouldn’t guess their age. They are rather girthy, but not that tall in comparison to something like the Sequoia or Redwood, which we often equate with age. Their branches are unique as they twist and curve like strings of warm taffy. Once you fully consider how old they are, they start to look elderly. Their exterior is painted many different shades of brown, and the trunks and limbs are brushed with indentations and grooves, like a wrinkly old man who’s spent too many days out in the sun. At the same time, the way they look is almost fanciful. Although extremely still and sturdy, the dramatic twisted growth and exotic posture make these trees appear frozen in mid-dance, manipulated by some strange sorcery. 
I stood there in a prairie along the mountain side, among bunchgrass and black sage, looking up at the mountain peek. The view looked like Wheeler Peak, and the adjoining peaks, used to all be connected at a higher point, all composing one grand mountain, but over time that higher summit crumbled to pieces and formed the rock glacier. Nevertheless, Wheeler Peak stands very tall. It’s Nevada’s highest peak. Although just summiting the beast alone seemed impossible, one of my questions was, do I have time? I was not getting an early start. It was well into the afternoon. 
Eventually there was nothing left except me on the slanted fields of rock crumble. The trail evolved into switchbacks, and since the landscape was so uniform, it was difficult at times to know exactly where the trail was supposed to be.
When I reached the top, the wind had dissipated greatly. I was stunned by the view. Hundreds of miles of Nevada was visible in all directions. Here I could truly see just how mountainous Nevada was, with mountains all over in near and far reaches, with sharp points, and slanted slopes, snow caps, and hidden forests, and valleys of desert between them all, covering great expanses. Just across from Wheeler peak was another peak that rose on a mountain which looked like it had been sliced by a knife with such a shark direct cut down to its base. 
This little forest gave me a feeling of privacy and security, despite the dead squirrel in there, just a few feet from where I pitched my tent. Flies buzzed around it. I made a mental note to make sure to avoid it. The last thing I wanted to do was to clean fresh juicy squirrel guts from my hiking boots or feel them ooze onto the sides of my flip flops. It hadn’t crossed my mind that the real concern should be the carcass attracting other animals. 
This lake before me was not very big. It was small. I could easily swim from one side to the other. It seemed more like a pool. That combined with the fact that the pine trees weren’t terribly tall, the rocks around had fallen in relatively small fragments, and the only wildlife I had observed were chipmunks playfully running around, gave this place a sort of miniature feel. This sensation was appealing. It made the place welcoming, homey, manageable. It was like I had come upon a secret, exclusive, pocket-sized Montana. 
It seemed as if the forest of the park was only possible because of Wheeler Peak. Here at the base of this giant rock feature was the collection of its ice melt, the fruit of its shade. It created conditions for this pristine forest. It was another paradise hidden in the high reaches of a mountain. 
I sat down on my sleeping bag, in my tent, tucked in between the pines, and I was at perfect blissful ease. I brought into my tent with me my water bottle and my book on the West. I took a sip of my water and laid down. The sleeping bag felt soft, silky, and warm, as it slid under my skin of my arms and brushed against my heels. Beneath it was the comfort of my air mattress filled full. I stretched my legs out and I could almost hear them giving off a sigh of relief. My head sunk heavily into my pillow. I looked up through the top of my tent into the limbs of the pine trees. Just beyond them was the rich blue sky and a few clouds lingering. I could gaze at this view for hours, I thought. 
There was no way for me to gage the distance of the expanse before me, for there were no objects to give perspective. There was nothing but a grand mirage of water. It appeared that the desert housed a great lake, but the image disappeared at certain angles and the illusion waved in the heat. I knew it was desert trickery.
This is not just an observation based on Baker. Elsewhere in Nevada I’ve seen some interesting sites. Once I stopped at a gas station, and in the men’s room, I relieved myself into a cascading urinal fountain adored with rocks and greenery, where people had thrown pennies in, as if making a wish. Also outside of Death Valley, on the Nevada side, in the abandoned city of Rhyolite I’d seen the figures of the last supper recreated as lifesize ghost statues. Nevada is just full of surprises. I mean, in Baker you don’t get a stop sign, you get a “WHOA!” sign. They just have to be different.
When I come across these rough looking trailers isolated in the desert, it’s not something I look down on or fear. I don’t think these people are hostile, or unrelatable by any means. Some may be living in poverty, and life may not be ideal, but for many, this is just how they live in Nevada. Many people have moved to Nevada and have chosen to live here in this way. It’s so far isolated from the rest of the country that sometimes these lots of land don’t have access to the full array of utilities, and there’s no one around to build a house hundreds of miles out in the desert. So, the only option is to resort to a trailer. 
Another thing worth mentioning in my observations about rural Nevada is the fascination with the supernatural and extraterrestrial. The supernatural fascination, I think, is tied back to all the ghost towns they have. These ghost towns have held so much life and so many stories, and then they were suddenly abandoned after the silver rush, but stories live on, or are speculated. And so in these places that have been abandoned there are allusions of the past that are almost seeable and believable, just like the mirage of water in the desert. It’s as if the beating heart of Nevada is a ghost itself, but a ghost really wouldn’t have a beating heart, would it? That’s just a piece of Nevada irony for you. 
Josh Hodge blog 