I woke up, now Thursday, and seeing as though
I planned to leave Joshua Tree on Sunday, it was time to drive out of the park
and into "town" for cell reception, as the park has exactly "NO
SERVICE," and see about those new tires.
Since I left, I've always had this inclination to pick up
hitchhikers in parks - not the general hobo, scary ones, but park people - just
regular traveler nomads. Parks seem to have a different air about them than the
general world; safer, cleaner, more trustworthy. Or maybe that's the world in
general, but we're too busy being scared by mainstream media and 24 hour news
sources. Unfortunately for me (or fortunately, perhaps) my car doesn't have
room for another human unless you "curl up into a ball," as I put it,
in the front seat and good luck finding room to put any belongings you may have
with you. Needless to say, I had not acted on my inclination to help out a
fellow traveler.
However, since my car was halfway emptied, I had some space.
So when I passed a kid in his early 20s, just outside the Hidden Valley
campsite (the one I planned to use, but it was full - later I would discover
this was the 'rock climbers haven' and also that it's prime climbing season
here at JT), I realized I had some space in the car for him if I shuffled some
stuff and he sat in the trunk. So I reversed and picked him up. Had I known what
was about to happen, I probably wouldn't have stopped.
His name was Reid. I had been biking the west coast for the
past eight months and last night a packrat stole his glasses while he slept in
a pseudo-cave located in Hidden Valley called the Persian Room. He needed to go
to town to make an appointment with an optometrist for new glasses (and
couldn't bike down because he couldn't see). I was heading down to shower, make
a call to Wal-Mart to make sure they had time for my tires today and, ideally,
get some new rubber on The Steed.
All of this was discussed while we drove 14 miles to the
North Gate in Joshua Tree. When I arrived, the Ranger asked me if I was Heidi.
"No," I replied, preoccupied with looking for my Federal Park Pass to
show her.
"Oh," she said, explaining her question,
"There is a mom looking for her daughter who drives a black Mazda3
hatchback."
Shit, I thought immediately, please don't say you just got
my name wrong and it is my mom looking for me. Now half flustered - and with
Reid in the back thinking she asked if someone was hiding - I'm still looking
for my wallet (which ended up being on my lap under my purse as I had
anticipated the need for it at the gate, but then forgot) - she came back after
checking the name and asked my correct name. "Yessssss," I said, half
embarrassed, half dreading the familial backlash, "that's me."
"Well," she giggled a bit, "Call your mother.
She called the Police who told her to call us and she thinks you're
missing." She then announced to the other woman in the kiosk that she had
found me. And then proceeded to radio the entire park ranger system.
And that's how I found out I was a missing persons. As soon
as I had service again, I called my mother and got her voicemail: Hi mom. It's
me. I'm not missing. Just like Yellowstone, the Federal Parks do not have
service. Please stop panicking. I'm
fine. And then I texted her. I then called my father, who pulled the guilt
train into the station telling me that my mother was worried sick and it wasn't
okay what I did. That I'm 32 and I should know better.
What exactly did I do?!, I wondered. It didn't even occur to me that
posting a photo saying that I was waiting for AAA to help me and then entering
a park for 24 hours would prompt my mother to go into a frenzy and report me
missing to the Yucca Valley Police and, in turn, to the Joshua Tree National Park Rangers. I
had (wrongly) assumed that by now people could see that what I was doing was no
more dangerous than driving to work or going out for a drink in DC (as I had
done for the past decade). A while later, my mom texted me back: She thought I
had been eaten by wolves. WOLVES! Suffice to say the amount of logic in her
theory lies in how many wolves inhabit Joshua Tree, which is zero. Coyotes only
- and I'd only seen the one, which seemed friendly and skittish and patrolled
the campsite looking for treats. (I have named him or her Sunshine.)
From this, my mother decided: 1. I need to quit traveling to
calm her worries and 2. I needed to call her every day. Their guilt was
working; it ate into me for the better part of my day until I realized that I
cannot be held responsible for managing someone else's anxiety; I can't not
live my life to the fullest because of someone's propensity to worry. I
understand that the concern comes from a place of love, but I cannot
live my life to the fullest being bound by the fear and frustrations of others.
I am not afraid; I have learned to trust the unknown.
Once all of that was cleared up and I was no longer a
Missing Persons, I called Wal-Mart who informed me that they had to special
order the tires and the soonest they would be in would be Monday. Monday!
Begrudgingly, I had him order the tires (what choice did I have). I took a shower in the 'bath house" connected to the Cactus Corner general store at the bottom of the hill from the park entrance. I paid $7 dollars and Reid patiently waited while I had a proper shower for the first time in days. Afterward, Reid and I
went to Wal-Mart anyway for supplies - especially since I now had to get enough
to last me through the weekend and there was no running water in the park and I
had to severely limit my driving on the donut tire.
After stocking up, we came back and stopped at the Cactus Corner again in to use
the outlets on their porch to charge our electronics before heading back into
the park for sunset. (JT has the most AMAZING sunsets and stargazing.) Seated there
was a guy, my age, who introduced himself as Tyler. Tyler was a commercial
fisherman, working for himself but looking to live in the area - as LA is too
expensive and he is an avid climber. I told Tyler - and then Reid joined in too
to mention that - I climb and was in need of a partner if he had the gear.
Tyler told me to come down to Hidden Valley site 8 at 8:30am and look for the red tent, if I felt
like climbing.
Attention turned to Reid's glasses and I said I could give
him my extra pair, but they would be too strong. Turns out, they were almost
just right. (Wow. He really couldn't see!) We said goodbye to Tyler and then
Reid and I were off, back up the hill - but only after I told my mother I was
heading back into no service land, of course.
When I dropped Reid off at 'his' site (which was really a
60 something - as they affectionately call themselves - "dirtbag" named John's site that Reid was bumming space from and sleeping in the Persian Room cave) he offered to introduce me to everyone. I
accepted, which turned into me staying for dinner: Tri-tip in John's dutchie
with carrots and potatoes. It was absolutely delicious and I couldn't say 'thank you' enough. They were all incredibly
welcoming... except Kathleigh.
Kathleigh judged me for having a plastic cup I used to
transport ice earlier from the gas station. "Who's is this?" she
scorned. I owned up and felt so small. I already felt out of place. Watching all of these older folks around the fire, I felt inferior; like an impostor. These
folks with their vans and dutchies and no plastic cups were there real campers,
the true travelers and I was just a faker. 'New money," a pretender; that's how I
felt, anyway.
Until Kathleigh, a twenty something townie - from whom I got the impression she desperately wanted to prove she belonged and unending about about her 'trailer' - judged me for a plastic cup. I have come to find that
there is an odd amount of strange snobbery that sometimes lies in these
communities. In my mind - and gently
aloud - I explained my choice to her. And in my mind, realized that she had no
room to judge me, as I realized my place
in this vagabonding world. I'm in a tent. I've gone over 17,000 miles. My car
is my home. I washed my hair in a firepit yesterday. I am a dirtbag!
- a self-revelation: These people are
my people. And I belong.
More posts please! This blog is addicting. :)
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