Hitting the Road on the Van's Maiden Voyage

Origin: Hankook Park

Destination: Charmlee County Park, Malibu Creek State Park, and Topanga Canyon

Soundtrack: Fleet Foxes, Zero7, Speedsquare, Camera Obscura, and Midlake

Reading Material: Bohemian Manifesto and a November 2008 issue of Rolling Stone

This weekend marked my inaugural voyage with my 1980 Volkswagen Vanagon. It was not only the first time I took her on the freeway, but also the first time I exposed her to any sort of hill – something that I learned is quite a challenge for her. But, overall, she performed beautifully and unfolded her personality to me over the course of the two days.

The first leg of the journey was making my way to the coast (with my roommate and one of my adventure partners, Erik) via highway 10. Up to this point, I don’t think I’d driven her faster than 40 miles per hour. I was, to say the least, shocked to hear the sound she makes at about 55 when there is any kind of cross wind. It is an incredibly loud beating/thumping noise coming from the front end. Since the engine is housed in the rear, the only conclusion we could come up with is that it is a purely wind related phenomenon. It’s not something I am terribly worried about, but would like to get to the bottom of nonetheless, as it is not a pleasant thing to listen to as you’re cruising down the freeway.

Once on the PCH, we drove alongside another VW Van, more of the Samba bus style, and I shared my first VW bus owner to VW bus owner salute. There were a number of these that followed over the course of the weekend and each was a nice affirmation of my choice of vehicle. Driving up Highway 1 was glorious. The weather was indisputably perfect and our sound system was bumpin’! Zero7 was singing:

So you crash and you burn
Sometimes the road will twist and turn
Some of this, less of that
Forget all about the map, California Roads

Cash it in and throw it all away
Never needed any of it anyway

We arrived at Charmlee just in time for a sunset hike. This time of year, everything is so lush that comparisons to Ireland and Hawaii are unavoidable. Charmlee has unbeatable views of the Pacific, expansive meadows, and lots of rocks and trees where you could tuck yourself away and die to the rest of the world for a while.

We finished just after the sun had dropped behind the mountains and headed back out on the road, going deeper into the canyon. We popped Speedsquare in the stereo and started jamming until – “What? Erik, what’s going on? My gas pedal’s not working. I’m not getting any power!” Our immediate decision was to turn the van around and head back to the coast, which is a 3.5 mile downhill ride. And a good decision it was as we had no cell phone reception in the canyon and because my engine almost immediately cut out. We coasted down with no power brakes and all the lights on my dashboard glowing an ominous red until we reached Hwy 1 and were grateful to find a small, Vanagon sized pull off right before the stop sign. My heart was racing the entire ride down and I had a nagging fear that the brakes were going to fail and send us into the ocean.

Turns out, we just ran out of gas. We found that out when the tow truck arrived two hours later, gave her a couple gallons, and she started right up. It’s actually pretty easy to run out of gas when your gas gauge is inoperable and you have no idea how much gas was in the tank when you bought the vehicle. I thought it was almost full upon taking possession but in reality, it was nearly empty. Now I know! And the problem of the gas gauge is fixable. I just need to order some small parts from the VW dealer.

We filled up at the next gas station and made it, tired but grateful, to Topanga Canyon. We camped on an overlook across the street from a friend’s cottage where we were able to cook a late dinner that we practically fell asleep over and wash up before retiring to the van. We didn’t experience a restful night’s sleep, likely because we were parked on a slope and were too tired to move a bunch of crap off the bed and sleep the right way. Lesson learned.

The next day was breakfast at Pat’s, a Topanga hideaway with live music and almost as many dogs as people on the patio. We read from Bohemian Manifesto and filled ourselves with coffee in preparation for our hike in Malibu Creek.

This day was the big incline test for the van. I think many people I know would go mildly insane driving her up a hill, but I tried to experience the slowness as a form of meditation on the phrase “It’s about the journey, not the destination”. I think I am going to have a decal of that applied to my windshield just to remind myself anytime I’m thinking I should have bought that little 2002 VW Cabrio Convertible I was eyeing before I set my sights on Miss Vanagon. She frequently tops out at 35 mph on steep inclines, even in 2nd gear.

Most importantly, however, she got us to our destination for the day - Malibu Creek State Park. This place not only draws the aforementioned comparisons, but also evokes images of the Norwegian fjords because of its dramatic green cliffs. We meandered creekside and inhaled deeply to soak up the negative ions, scrambled up the side of a dam, and squeezed through steep rock formations. We invented outrageous stories to explain Penny’s presence in a park where no dogs are allowed.

The weekend was coming to a close. We dropped our friend off at his place and headed back to LA proper. With less cross winds on the way home, she only thumped a little on the freeway heading eastward. We decided to exit Western Avenue, just to experience the stark contrast of where we had been and where we were returning to. We passed Happy Time Book Store, Korea Underwear Discount Center, and Young Dong Café.

And before we knew it, I was backing the van into our driveway in the fabulous enclave of Hankook Park. We thanked her and patted her on the dashboard – she has no name yet, by the way - and set about unpacking. It was a great initial trip and after a few cranks of a wrench and replacing of this and that, the next one should be even better.

Home on The Range

Last Saturday afternoon, I was recovering from a beautiful, yet somewhat brutal desert canyon hike in Anza Borrego State Park . My friend Ben and I had just finished a poolside meal at the Palms Hotel and were mulling over what to do with our evening. We grabbed the laptop, hopped on the hotel’s wi-fi, and searched for “ Slab City , CA ”. We found detailed descriptions, well-laid maps, and a page dedicated to how to hitchhike there.

We were tired, sunburned, cut up and unshowered, but Ben had the sense that Slab City was the place we belonged that night. I hesitated, but agreed after I came to the well-thought out conclusion of “Why not?” I left Ben in town and ran “home” – a patch of desert tucked up in the boulders of Glorieta Canyon – to change shoes and grab a bottle of wine. Descending back into the town of Borrego Springs, I spotted a body in downward dog in the middle of the roundabout known as Christmas Circle. It was Ben, building his reputation as the shirtless, hula-hooping yogi-about-town.

We hit the desert highway with little gas in the tank and upon finding that Ocotillo Wells didn’t have a filling station, almost turned back and scrapped our plans. But, by now, my curiosity had reached the point where there was no going back. Even if it ended up being a drive-by, we were at least going to see what Slab City looked like. When we finally arrived at a gas station in Brawley, Ben asked the cashier if she knew how to get to there. She looked at him as if to ask, “And just what are you getting in to this evening?” We later learned that Slab City, an encampment of all kinds of folks that have laid claim to the concrete slabs and bunkers of a former military base, doesn’t have the greatest reputation among the “city” folk of Brawley. Some view it as a place for derelicts, where drugs, violence and sloth are commonplace. Having seen it featured in Into The Wild recently, I had a completely different take. I envisioned it as a warm place, welcoming and open.

We drove up through Niland , CA , which is basically a power plant, Chinese restaurant and laundromat and began working our way east across the pitch black countryside. To our right appeared a defunct military guard post that now proclaimed “ Slab City : You’re Almost There!” See? Most welcoming.

In the darkness, we could make out a building that looked like a fortress with a cross on it to our left, the pinnacle of Salvation Mountain to our right, and trailers scattered in every direction. We had a nagging fear that these were people that rose and slept with the sun and that we had missed the whole Saturday evening shindig. Until we saw the lights, brightly colored and strung across a large stage, with a sign beckoning travelers to stop and play at The Range. We pulled in and were more than surprised to find a fully-functioning catering truck in the parking lot, serving up corn chowder, tacos, burgers, and pizzas.

We parked our little Toyota sedan in the midst of RVs, Chinooks, and Vanagons and slowly made our way to the stage, feeling increasingly giddy. We walked around the fence constructed entirely of old chrome bumpers and hubcaps and stepped up onto a large, raised concrete slab cum seating area. You have your choice of old car seat, old van seat, old theater seat, or picnic bench for watching the show. I was eyeing people to check if they were eyeing me. They were, but without much suspicion, so I grabbed a chair and immediately relaxed.

A family was setting up to play. Mom was drumming and her son, maybe eight years old, was on guitar playing right next to Dad. I took Ben by the hand and we slowed danced through the first half of Freebird. When the tempo kicked up, we let each other go and became two distinct jumping and kicking entities, much to the inconvenience of the child artists with their sidewalk chalk using the dance floor as their canvas.

A man came over to me, saw that there were two beer cans on the bench where he wanted to sit, picked them up and threw them across the floor. I said, “Not worth much empty, huh?” He replied that, actually, the cans were their largest source of income. This man, whose name escapes me, was the organizer and emcee of the evening’s festivities. He took an instant liking to me and allowed me my fair share of touristy inquiries. When I asked him how he managed to end up here, he replied, “At some point, I just started getting more and more disillusioned, which made me less and less employable. Sooner or later, they just run you out of town.” He left the construction business twelve years ago after he realized that he was building homes that he didn’t have a chance of setting foot in once they were finished. He says he remembers the days of being a Slab City newbie like they were yesterday, but that already he’s the old man on the block.

Soon enough, Ben got his hula hoop out of the car. Whereas he had been a spectacle at a busy trailhead in the park earlier that day - a handsome, muscular man swinging a sparkly blue hoop around his waist - here he was welcome to wave his freak flag without so much as one person batting an eye.

Then, I met Alan. Alan has a small, charming face, long puffy black hair and glasses. He had just wrapped his set on stage and was walking back from the catering truck. I asked him, “Whujya get?” He raved about the corn and bacon chowder and asked me if, please, I would try a little. I refused for reasons of my vegetarian-ness. And before you know it, I’d made another friend. Alan is 24 and he came to Slab City after a 4 year stint in the army, which he says he did in order to “impress his father”. He was adopted at age three and spent his teenage years in and out of boys’ homes. In the army, he was deployed to Guantanamo and says he witnessed some “really fucked-up shit” in the prisons there. Now, he crafts pipes out of marble and sells them when he can to make a little money. He also used to collect scrap from the nearby firing range, claiming to bring in $1200 in three to four days work, but “that shit started to get in my lungs”, he says and has stopped, for now. Alan is well-spoken and very clever. He was thrilled, he told me, that he could still make a girl laugh. When I shared with him, in hushed tones, that I worked for Corporate America, his reaction was beautiful. He looked at me sweetly and said, “They don’t deserve you.”

Alan told me he will be waiting for me next week. It’s Slab City ’s Annual Prom. He says he’ll be in a tux and he’ll even put his hair in a ponytail. If I show up, I’m his date. I don’t even have to bring a dress as there is a rack full of them at The Range and you can just pick whichever one you like. Although, in a last minute request, Alan asked that I arrive in something “provocative”, and I walked away in a fit of laughter.

A stranger gifted me a sweet-smelling wildflower called Stok on the way to the parking lot. Before we could leave, I had to pull a puppy out from under our car and return it to its rightful owner. On the drive home, a moon that looked like a tangerine planet rose over a refinery to the west. Ben and I vowed to return.