The Vagina Rock Monologue

I know an old man. Actually, its probably too much to say that I know him. Or that he knows me. We've passed each other on the trail a number of times and have stopped occasionally to chat with one another. That ultimately happens when you repeatedly see the same folks in the same location doing the same thing you are doing. So this guy, he's is a familiar face to me even though I may not be to him.

My trail acquaintance is what you might call "learned." He is formally trained and educated and holds multiple advanced degrees to prove it. He also knows the land. That comfortable familiarity comes from years of walking, eating, breathing, working, and observing the trails. So he is both book smart and street (or, more appropriately "trail") smart.

Many months ago, this scholarly old gentleman told me a secret. The trail we were trodding crossed native land. The ancestral home of the Chumash people. For thousands of years before the European invasion, conquest, and forced assimilation, the Chumash called this place home. They roamed it freely, unencumbered by the disapproving eyes of their more advanced, religiously superior, and lighter-skinned brethren. That, of course, was not the secret. That was just common knowledge. What wasn't and isn't common knowledge was what he told me next: that there was a ceremonial fertility stone close by that was hiding in plain sight. And in the immediate vicinity of that stone was other evidence that the location was regularly used by the Chumash people. He didn't elaborate on what that other evidence was and I didn't prod him further. If he had wanted me to know, he would have told me.

Secrets like these are closely guarded by the people that know them. And for good reason. Many a site has been despoiled by those who believe it clever or cute to scratch their name into or tag a pictograph panel. Or to steal artifacts. So my friend did not disclose to me the location of this particular stone. And I, in turn, will similarly refrain from disclosing its location.

But after that encounter, I was intrigued. So I starting looking. I scanned the topography trying to see the land as the Chumash would have seen it. I looked along ridgelines, into the canyon bottoms, and at the various rocky prominences that dot the area. There were a million rocks out there, any one of which could in theory be a candidate. But eventually, I spotted a large sandstone protuberance. It didn't immediately beckon to me, but if I looked at it from a certain angle, it kinda, sorta resembled a vagina.

So I decided to investigate. There is no path to the vagina rock. It required some cross-country travel that involved a bit of bashing through our infamous chaparral to get there. The closer I got, the larger the rock got. And the less it resembled lady parts. I started thinking that perhaps I was on a fool's errand. But I was already invested this much in the task so it made no sense to turn back. Thus, I pushed forward.

When I finally arrived at my destination, I was struck by the enormity of the sandstone monolith. Distance alters one's perspective, but I was still surprised at how badly I had misjudged the size of this thing. And it was far too large, and its sides too sheer for climbing upon. So I doubt that is how the Chumash used this particular fertility aid. 

On the backside of the stone, I discovered what the old man on the trail must have been alluding to: a smattering of bedrock mortars. A short distance away, at the base of another sandstone monocline, surrounded by sycamore trees, I found another cupule embedded in the rocky ground. Nearby was a smooth, rounded stone that resembled a pestle. It did not appear that this particular rock was "the" pestle that went with this particular mortar (or that it was a pestle at all), but it was representative of the stony implements that litter the area and were available to, and leveraged by the Chumash people. I found no midden, but perhaps I'm too anthropologically challenged to have even noticed.

Satisfied, I sat for awhile in the cool of the shade with my back against the sandstone wall trying to imagine native peoples grinding dried seeds and acorns for wiiwish. It's a romantic ideal, particularly when viewed through the prism of 21st century advantage and comfort, but I wondered about the difficult reality of the task. I also wondered about the vagina rock and how, when, why, and by whom it was used. Perhaps as a descendant of colonizers and occupiers, it is not my place to know. And perhaps it wasn't even my right to have visited this place at all.

That same thought came to the forefront of my mind some days later when I inexplicably developed a severe case of dermatitis on my legs. It is possible that I passed through some poison oak on my way to the fertility stone, but I've been around enough poison oak to recognize it. And I didn't see any on my way to the stone. And I've had poison oak more times than I care to remember, and this didn't particularly look to be poison oak. So I allowed for the possibility that my flare-up was spiritual and/or cultural retribution for visiting a spot at which I was not wanted, had not been invited to, and had no business being at. Of course, that thinking could have just as easily been my hyper-active imagination being fueled by occupier guilt, but I'm not taking any chances. I will for now let this place be.

In the Footsteps of Grizzlies and Banditos

From a town known as Wheeling, West Virginia
Rode a boy with a six-gun in his hand
And his daring life of crime
Made him a legend in his time
East and west of the Rio Grande
~Billy Joel, The Ballad of Billy the Kid

As far as I know, legendary outlaw and bank-robber extraordinaire Billy the Kid was never in the San Gabriel Mountains. He was too busy shooting up saloons and rustling cattle and killing lawmen in Nuevo Mexico to bother coming further west. And even if he did have aspirations to visit the Golden State, those were cut short on July 14, 1881 when Lincoln County Sheriff Pat Garrett ambushed Billy in a house in Fort Sumner, New Mexico and put a bullet in his brain. Thus came the swift end for Henry McCarty aka William H. Bonney aka Billy the Kid.

But the San Gabriels didn't need Billy the Kid. It had a robust assemblage of banditos and gun-slingers and desperados all its own. One of the more notorious was the gentleman and chivalrous outlaw Tiburcio Vasquez who claimed that his crime spree was to avenge the numerous injustices committed by invading Anglos against native Californios. Vasquez and his gang were all over the San Gabriel range and several places memorialize or bear witness to that fact (e.g., Bandido and Horse Flat Campgrounds, Vasquez Creek, Vasquez Rocks).

One of Vasquez's more infamous exploits was the raid on the Repetto ranch which was located in southeast Los Angeles in what is now Monterey Park. Alexander Repetto was an Italian sheepherder who Vasquez was informed was flush with cash after having recently sold one of his flocks. So Vasquez and his boys hatched a plan to relieve Mr. Repetto of his burden. Claiming to be sheep-shearers, they came to the Repetto ranch looking for work. But Repetto was a sharp cookie with a keen eye who saw through the ruse and called Vasquez out. Admitting that he was in fact not a sheep-shearer, but a gangster, Vasquez tied Repetto to at tree, demanded $10,000 of him, and threatened to hang him if he did not comply. But Repetto didn't have the money. He had spent most of it. And what remained was on deposit at the Temple and Workman Bank in downtown Los Angeles. So an alternate plan was conceived. Vasquez would force Repetto to write a check that his nephew would carry to the bank, negotiate, and then return with the proceeds. In a piece titled "The Hunt for Tiburcio Vasquez: A Chase Through a Californio's L.A., " Robert Peterson describes what happened next:

"When Repetto's nephew arrived at the bank, he was so nervous that the banker, Francis Temple, became suspicious and contacted the Sheriff. Upon further questioning the nephew broke down and tearfully revealed the whole story. The Sheriff immediately started assembling a posse to capture Vasquez. At this point, the nephew became worried that the Sheriff's involvement might result in his uncle's death. He managed to convince the banker to give him 500 dollars in gold and returned to Repetto's house, before the posse, to give the money to Vasquez. When the Sheriff's posse approached Repetto's house, Vasquez and his men mounted up and started racing north towards present day Pasadena."

Vasquez's escape route took him up the Arroyo Seco, into Dark Canyon, up to the old Soledad Road grade at the crest (present day Grizzly Flat Road), and then down into Big Tujunga Canyon via Grizzly Flat and Vasquez Creek (roughly, the present-day Grizzly Flat Trail). The ride down to Big Tujunga was rough, steep, and overgrown with Buckthorn, and Vasquez lost a horse and his revolver on the way down. Years later, a 16-year old kid named Phil Begue from the City of Tujunga, found Vasquez's saddle and his revolver still bearing the initial "T V" cut into the barrel.

For a nice write-up of the raid by Vasquez on the Repetto ranch by legendary Southern California historian John Robinson, go here: http://www.lawesterners.org/wp-content/uploads/2013/10/149-DECEMBER-1982.pdf

Given its historical significance, I've wanted to see Grizzly Flat and the trail leading to it up Dark Canyon from Big Tujunga for awhile, but all the reports I had seen were that is was impassable and/or choked with poison oak. Me and poison oak ain't friendly. So I never went. Then one day, I read a report that the Grizzly Flat trail had been worked and was clear all the way to the divide. That was all the motivation I needed.

I started from Stoneyvale at Vogel Flats. The parking lot was empty save for one van near the trailhead. Two ladies in hiking gear had just come down trail and were loading their gear into the van. A good omen. As I passed them, they asked me where the trail went. They had followed it a short distance until it petered out in a tangle of growth at the stream and then turned back not seeing a way forward. A bad omen. I pushed on having to see for myself.

A short distance later I saw for myself. The path seemingly ended abruptly in a boggy, overgrown mess along Big Tujunga creek. This wasn't right. The reports I had read indicated the trail was passable. So I rock and log-hopped across the creek to left-hand side, bashed through a stand of Arundo donax, and the trail magically reappeared. From this point until the path tacks south at Silver Canyon and begins the climb to Grizzly Flat it was easy and open walking.

Then things began to get more interesting. As the trail starts to climb what I suppose is technically Dark Canyon, it gets steep, rocky, and narrow. Not impossibly steep, but steep enough to make you work. As the climb began, I looked for the Windsor benchmark (2094) without luck. It must be buried in the very thick brush that blankets the hillsides here.

Further up, stiff brush began to encroach on the trail poking and grabbing me as I passed. Then there were a number of fallen trees that had to be negotiated. Again, nothing too difficult, but enough to add some spice to the outing. But the higher I climbed, the more ducking and bending and crawling on, over, and around vegetation I had to do. Fortunately, none of it was of the poisonous oak variety. Just below and west of Grizzly Flat, in the dark and cool drainage that must be Dark Canyon (none of the maps that I've looked at are labeled), I heard rustling in the underbrush ahead. Since I was just shy of Grizzly Flat and in the deep recesses of the San Gabriels, I immediately assumed Ursus americanus californiensis. So I started hooting, hollering, and clapping my hands in a pathetic attempt to scare off the unseen beast. Then two guys came around the bend on the descent making me the fool. They didn't say anything but they knew. And I knew they knew. I asked them if they had gone all the way to the ridge, but they demurred. They said they got tired of bush-whacking so were beating a retreat back to the trailhead. Another bad omen.

Then I popped out into the clear and the sunshine at Grizzly Flat, named after the Grizzly Bears that once called the Angeles National Forest home and reputedly favored the Big Tujunga region. I've heard that before the Station Fire, Grizzly Flat was nice. Now, it is not much more than wide-spot on the trail. I stopped for a spell, investigated the water tank, hydrated, then pushed on.

Here, the trail morphs into Grizzly Flat Road so I was optimistic that the traveling would become easier. But while the way did in fact open up, and the path did become wider, forward progress definitely did not become more effortless or simple. It seems Spanish Broom, a beautiful, non-native invasive, has a particular affinity for the area and it has aggressively colonized the place. It crowded the road to the point of being almost impassable at times, and I spent the next half-hour or so ducking under, around, and through massive clumps of the offending stuff.

Finally, I reached the divide separating Big Tujunga Canyon from the Arroyo Seco. This was the exact spot where 100+ years earlier, Tiburcio Vasquez finally shook Sheriff Rowland from his tail after the Repetto Ranch raid. The spot offers expansive views down Dark Canyon and into the Big Tujunga Creek drainage. Here, I found a spot to admire the fine scenery, shed my sweat-soaked top, dry out, and contemplate the historical significance the piece of ground on which I was sitting. After I had my fill, I hoisted myself up and then retreated back into the wilds of Dark Canyon that was once the haunt of both bandits and grizzlies.

Old Man Yells at COVID-19 Trail Refugees

Trail Panties - WTF?

Like the rest of y'all, I'm under house arrest these days per orders from Gov. Gavin Newsome. Under his orders, we're all required to lay low at home and not go out except to engage in "essential activities." The list of activities that are considered "essential" is pretty obvious and includes buying groceries, going to the pharmacy, and seeking emergency medical assistance. I'm also pretty sure it includes hiking.

So last Saturday afternoon I broke from quarantine for some outdoor physical activity and to rejuvenate my withering soul. In an effort to minimize my travel, I opted for my local trailhead where I've hiked hundreds of time before instead of a more far-flung and "interesting" destination. Normally, this trailhead is pretty uncrowded even though it is easily accessible and immediately adjacent to the sprawl of the suburbs. 5-10 cars in the parking lot is typical, slightly more during the day on the weekends.

But on this particular day, when I arrived at the trailhead late afternoon, I was shocked at what I saw. The parking lot was stuffed with cars beyond capacity and there were folks crawling all over the hills and social distancing together. There was literally no place to park. Dejected, I turned tail and headed for a less popular trailhead 15 minutes away in a neighboring community. I'd never seen more than a car or two at this particular trailhead so I figured it was a decent bet for a chance of solitude far from the madding hordes. But even here, I found 11 cars parked and numerous casual hikers heading into the hills. Coroanavirus refugees all, no doubt.

As much as it frustrates me because I'm basically a selfish bastard who feel that "my" space is now being invaded, I get it. Working from home, kids out of school, restaurants, bars, malls, and movie theaters all closed. After a while, staring at the walls will cause even the homiest of home bodies to contemplate slitting their wrists. And getting outdoors and into the hills is a perfect antidote for those otherwise dark and self-destructive thoughts and urges. We that have been doing this for a very, very long time already know this. But, the people suddenly bum-rushing the trails now are not hikers. They are mall-walkers at heart. I don't necessarily say that disparagingly, but by and large, these folks are only out on the trail because they have no other options. Once this crises passes and the malls re-open, they'll happily abandon the wild places to us weirdos and introverts and things will go back to normal.

One of the glaring issues associated with newbies hitting the trails is that a good number of them aren't really outdoor enthusiasts. As a result, they aren't aware of and have little appreciation for trail etiquette. Neither are they instilled with an outdoor ethic that guides their behavior while out on the trail. So, as a public service announcement to those folks (and candidly, for others who go out frequently and ought to know better, but apparently don't), I offer up these useful trail tips for your next outing outside.

1. Pack it in, pack it out. This one is pretty simple. At least in concept. You carry something out into the hills, you bring it back out. In practice, however, this simple to understand principle is often not observed. So it bears repeating here: don't be a lazy asshole and leave your plastic water bottle or candy wrapper or beer can trailside or tucked strategically under some rock for someone else to deal with. Your mom isn't coming by later to clean up after you so be an adult, pick up your shit, and carry it out.

2. Pick up after your animal. This is a corollary to commandment no. 1 above. If you take your dog out on the trail, be prepared to pick up its shit. The trails are not your own personal dog park and the rest of us aren't amused by having to side-step little poo packets left on the path by your little (or big) bundle of fur. And do not, I repeat, DO NOT, pick up your dog's shit, put it in a little plastic baggie, and then leave that baggie on the trail as if you're going to come by later and carry it out. We all understand that game and know that that is just for show. So stop the pretense. And another thing. Stop bringing your dog on trails that are clearly marked "no dogs." I'm a rabid dog-lover. But Jesus Christ people. There are places where your dog shouldn't be: grocery stores, office buildings, restaurants, the dentist's office, and trails marked "no dogs."

3.  Don't leave your snot, sweat, and pee rags on the trail. What the actual fuck is with people leaving buger-encrusted, urine soaked, and shit-stained tissues trailside? How disgusting can you be to take a piss, wipe your crotch, and then drop the pee rag on the trail for all the world to see? If you must pee on the trail, air your crotch out naturally. Or if you insist on wiping yourself, bring a little plastic baggie and use it to pack your pee rag out. The same holds true for sweat rags. If you must wipe perspiration from your brow with a tissue, fine, but don't leave that sweaty, disgusting artifact on or near the trail. Better yet, bring a bandana along and use that instead. It's multi-functional and washable. And for the love of God and decency, don't take a big dump near the trail, wipe your ass, and then leave the mess for the rest of us to deal with. It's fucking disgusting and so are you if you do that.

4. Yield to uphill hikers. This is trail etiquette 101. Uphill hikers are working harder than you if you're coming down. They have the right of way. Give it to them unless they defer to you.

5. Hike single file. I get that you're out with your besties and want to chatter and catch up on all the latest gossip while you hike, but please do so single-file if the trail is narrow. If you're walking shoulder-to-shoulder in a group, you're not leaving space for others, particularly those going uphill (see commandment no. 4 above). This isn't the mall. Don't act like it is.

6. Keep your music to yourself. In my humble view, if you insist on listening to music while you hike, you're missing the point. But that's really none of my business. What is my business is being forced to listen to your shitty music while I'm in the hills. So if you can't walk out of the house without Cardi B or 2 Chainz as your incessant backdrop, bring your ear buds along. And use them. That is why God invented them after all. The rest of us don't think you're bitchin' because you have music on blast while you're hiking. We just think you're a self-indulgent douche (think the Harley-Davidson South Park episode).

Brubb Brub Brrrubbb Brub!

7. Nature doesn't need a paint job. Look, there's a time and place for graffiti. That time and place is in the urban core on the side of buildings, billboards, light posts, and whatnot. Not on the trail. So don't feel compelled to leave your brightly-colored mark on rocks and tree trunks and trail signs like a dog marking its territory. Nature doesn't give a shit about your little tagging crew. And neither do the rest of us.

8. Switchbacks are not made to be cut. On trails that switch back and forth up a steep hillside, you may be tempted to cut the switchbacks in favor of the more direct route. Don't do that. Cutting switchbacks creates erosion which fucks up the trail, kills vegetation, and can cause rocks and debris to dislodge onto hikers below. And at the end of the day, it really doesn't save you any time. If you're really that concerned about getting back to your house or car a few seconds earlier than you might otherwise, then just consider staying home in the first place.

9. Don't trample wildflowers to be an IG influencer. You want that perfect shot to post to Instagram. You're an "ooh, ahhh" junkie. I get it. I have an IG account too and regularly post content. But you know what? The outdoors is a big goddamn place. There's plenty of available vantage points from which to take pics which don't require you to run roughshod over the native vegetation. So use those vantage points and leave some flowers for everyone else to enjoy. The world wasn't made for just you.

10.  Follow the Golden Rule. No, not that Golden Rule silly  This Golden Rule: Don't be a dick. That is somewhat encapsulated in commandments 1-9 above, but it is worth stating explicitly. Acknowledge your fellow trailmates. Say hello. Help folks out if it looks like they need it. Be respectful of others. This ain't brain surgery folks. Go out and enjoy the outdoors, but make sure your enjoyment doesn't encroach upon or negatively affect others.

Well, that's all I've got for you. I'll yell at a cloud or kids on my lawn in another post. In the meantime, stay safe. Don't touch your face with your virus-infected hands. Keep your social distance. And for the love of Christ, don't hoard toilet paper. We ain't running out of that stuff any time soon.

The Last Free Place

George Hansen: You know, this used to be a helluva good country. I can't understand what's gone wrong with it.

Billy: Man, everybody got chicken, that's what happened. Hey, we can't even get into like a second-rate hotel, I mean, a second-rate motel, you dig? They think we're gonna cut their throat or somethin'. They're scared, man.

George Hansen: They're not scared of you. They're scared of what you represent to 'em.

Billy: Hey, man. All we represent to them, man, is somebody who needs a haircut.

George Hansen: Oh, no. What you represent to them is freedom.

Billy: What the hell is wrong with freedom? That's what it's all about.

George Hansen: Oh, yeah, that's right. That's what it's all about, all right. But talkin' about it and bein' it, that's two different things. I mean, it's real hard to be free when you are bought and sold in the marketplace. Of course, don't ever tell anybody that they're not free, 'cause then they're gonna get real busy killin' and maimin' to prove to you that they are. Oh, yeah, they're gonna talk to you, and talk to you, and talk to you about individual freedom. But they see a free individual, it's gonna scare 'em.

Billy: Well, it don't make 'em runnin' scared.

George Hansen: No, it makes 'em dangerous.

    ~Easy Rider (1969)

We encountered the abandoned shuttle-stop on the outskirts of Niland, California along the road leading east into the oblivion of the vast Sonoran Desert. On the side was a fanciful mural bedecked with bright, colorful flowers, an over-sized "Peace" sign, and the almost mocking declaration that we were about to enter Slab City, the "last free place." 

It's a bit of an odd "Welcome Mat" for a place that is essentially no place. At least in the conventional and generally-accepted sense of the word "place." For Slab City is not even Niland, a bleached and saline little town that sits on the southeast shore of the Salton Sea baking for the majority of the year in the relentless and searing heat of the cruel desert sun. Niland has churches, but no bars. It has no Starbucks. It has no fun. It only has God's condemnation and heat. Scorching, fucking heat. But at least Niland is an actual, recognized place with streets and houses and other trappings of organized society. It even has it's own "dot" on the Rand-McNally Road Atlas. Not so Slab City. So how could this no-place beyond the boundaries of no-place possibly be the "last free place?"   

Beyond that, we found the shuttle-stop message a bit unnerving because of what it portends. After all, America is the land of the free. All of America. I know this because Francis Scott Key said so. And we all collectively sing about how free America is at every sporting, school, social, or civic event we attend. So just what in the hell are the denizens of Slab City trying to insinuate here? Is this welcome message intended as some back-handed poke at the freedom joke that's been played on all of us? What did the "Slabbers" know that we didn't know? This needed further investigation.

So we pushed forward along the uneven gravel road straight into the heart of absolute freedom. It's an eclectic domain populated by a wide assortment of characters all looking to "drop out" for their own personal reasons. Vagabonds, vagrants, artists, nudists, gypsies, preppers, pot-smoking hippies, Jesus freaks, doomsday prophesiers, drug dealers, criminals, and destitute retirees in tatty RVs just trying to make it across the finish line before the the money runs out. They are all here, drawn to this forsaken and forgotten place by the promise, or a least the hope, of being able to exist completely unencumbered by the conventions, the rules, the constraints that bind the rest of civilized society. It's a place of and for free spirits and free thinkers. Alexander Supertramp was here. So was Leonard Knight who spent the majority of his twilight years building Salvation Mountain, his folk-art tribute to the Almighty.

But once in the confines of Slab City "proper," one quickly comes to understand that absolute freedom may not look exactly like the mind's eye ideal. Discarded shoes hang from branchless trees. Abandoned cathode-ray television sets litter the landscape. Broken glass glints and shimmers on the desert floor. Tireless automobiles rest in the sand on their axles slowly being eaten by rust. Discarded tarpaulin, plastic sheets, and plywood are strewn hither and yon. Unfettered personal liberty is a chaotic, sordid, and messy affair. It's practitioners are a dirty and dangerous lot. A good number of "freedom-loving" Americans would like to see them brought to heel. Or worse. George Hansen understood this even though Billy did not.

And then there's the incongruity here amidst all the lack of societal oppression and subjugation. Slab City may be the last free place, but it's not total anarchy. Here, like pretty much everywhere else in the world, the idea of absolute freedom is tempered by the reality of community. Even if that community is nothing more than a bunch of folks eking out existence in a scatter-shot assemblage of rotted-out single-wides, broken-down buses, and the occasional faded tent. It is also moderated by the fact that the "Slabbers" are living in a fish bowl that they didn't ask for and probably don't want. That's because these days, their brand of living is so novel, and their DIY level of self-sufficiency is such a curiosity to the rest of us, that they have become a sort of tourist attraction. Freedom tourism is now a thing in America. Thus, the "last free place" is ironically peppered with hand-scrawled signs more reflective of a heavily-regimented master HOA than of a do-as-you-please Utopian enclave ("Keep Out," "Private Residence," "No Trespassing," etc.).

There's also rules here. Adjacent East Jesus, which several signs make clear is NOT Slab City, has an extensive list of "rules" you must follow if you visit. Don't arrive after dark. Don't smoke. Don't put your shit in the refrigerator. Don't do drugs. Stay the fuck out of the music room. Don't park in the wrong place. And, oh yeah, pay us $15/night per person to stay here. I don't necessarily begrudge East Jesus its rules or economic opportunism, but I can see why Slab City might want to disclaim association with it.

Oddly, there is also more community structure here than the disorder might otherwise first suggest. There's an Internet Cafe. There is a well-stocked community library/less well-stocked bar that is open 24/7/365. There is a hostel. And there are actual named "streets" such as "Fred Street" where, presumably, Fred lives.

And finally, there's "the fuzz." When driving through Slab City, you necessarily have to move slowly. You do this primarily because the dirt roads running through the area are rough and can kick up a lot of dust when you pass over them. Thus, to protect your suspension, and out of basic respect for the Slabbers, you take your time moving through the area. And slowing down is consistent with the whole vibe of the place anyway. But as we were creeping along the main road through the slabs on the day of our visit getting our eyes full of all the wonderful wonders it has to offer, two Imperial County Sheriff's Department SUVs came roaring past us as if we were on the open highway. Maybe it was just me, but the oppressive and faceless efficiency of their movement, the implicit disdain they exhibited by speeding through the area in pairs, their entire authoritarian aura communicated one thing to everyone within eye-shot of them: you are not as free as you think you are and we are here to make sure you don't forget that.

Later that evening, we camped in the open at Corvina Beach along the shore of the Salton Sea. The "beach" here is comprised of billions of invertebrate shells and thousands of desiccated Talapia carcasses which makes a surprisingly comfortable natural mattress. Our camp mates were an older couple and a single retiree, both Snowbirds from Canada who were riding out the cold season in this more hospitable clime. The former pair spent their time gluing Popsicle sticks together and hawking the resulting creations to passerbys as kitsch; the latter was a gray-haired, dope-smoking gentleman from Ontario with some sort of serious medical condition. He was traveling America alone in a van he had partially converted, but never quite finished. He had $7 to his name, not even enough to pay the fee imposed by the State of California for the privilege of sleeping. So he guerrilla camped and then hastily left early the next morning before the Ranger came snooping around and demanding money from him. He never said it, but I got the impression that this might have been his final rodeo, his last epic adventure.

So what does it all mean? Does Slab City live up to its own hype? Is it the "last free place" in America? Well, after spilling all of these words, I just don't know. It's complicated. Because freedom is a relative concept and absolute freedom is a unicorn. It probably doesn't exist other than as an abstract concept. And even if it does exist, I'm not sure anyone has ever seen it or will ever see it. Beyond that, I know there are folks tucked away in all sorts of lesser-known nooks and crannies living life on their terms. Are these locations materially less free than Slab City? I suspect not. But I do know that if the folks occupying these lesser-known spaces know what's good for them, they'll keep their lesser-known spaces lesser-known. Otherwise, it won't be long before the monied-interests seek to economically exploit them and law enforcement starts flexing its muscles and demanding allegiance to good public morals and social order.

At the end of the day, I guess it really doesn't matter how free Slab City is relative to everyplace else. All that matters is that the place exists and that the Slabbers, either by circumstances or choice, are living there. Not on your terms. Not on my terms. Not on God's terms. On their terms. And who gave them permission to live this way? Nobody did. They did. And that's the way it should be.