From Barstow to Mesquite - A
Mojave Desert Adventure
In May 2014, I departed
Casa
Carrie in Simi Valley, California, heading for
Mesquite, Nevada. While my ultimate destination
was
Moab, Utah, Mesquite stood half way along my
route. To complete my
trip to Moab in only two days, I planned to
travel 375 miles each day. When towing a travel
trailer, that distance approaches my outside limit
for daily travel.
After
merging on to Interstate I-15 North, my trip to
Moab would continue on Interstate I-15 and
I-70 almost all the way. Although the archaic
speed laws in California require large trucks and
autos towing trailers to proceed at no more that
fifty-five miles per hour, I find it safer to travel
on the Interstate at between sixty and sixty-five
mails per hour. Why California does not synchronize
the speed between towed vehicles and other traffic
is an open question. For as long as I can remember,
California has stuck to its slowpoke truck and
trailer speed limits. Throughout the
Four Corners region, trucks, trailers and autos
all have the same speed limits.
On Interstate I-5 North, the high desert cities of
Victorville, Barstow and Baker
offer
slight relief from the boredom of transiting across
the
Mojave Desert. In order to save on fuel costs, I
usually stop at the Love’s Travel Center in Barstow.
Upon arrival, I found a convoy of two
U.S. Army Reserve Humvees and a larger transport
truck stopped for refueling. In speaking with three
of the team members, I discovered that they were
traveling to nearby Fort Irwin for two weeks of
Reserve training exercises.
On a previous trip to Moab, I had seen a surplus
early model Humvee stripped down and converted
to off-road use. With no armor at all, the older
model Humvees became potential deathtraps during
Iraq War combat. The current model Humvees that I
saw in Barstow featured heavy steel-plate exteriors,
blast-resistant
doors and steel armor built into their
undercarriages. With no front-end crash protection,
and unarmed gun turrets up top, these Army Reserve
Humvees looked sleek, but not yet combat ready.
During my fuel stop, I remembered that I was heading
for two weeks of fun and adventure in the
Four Corners region. For the following two
weeks, the reservists would engage in war games and
training at the one-thousand square miles of open
desert at the nearby
National Training Center. With Memorial Day fast
approaching, I was happy to have such dedicated and
talented individuals training to protect our
liberties in the United States and abroad. After I
thanked the
Los Alamitos, California based reservists for
their service, they headed out.
Heading north from Barstow, I soon passed the
turn-off to Fort Irwin. By then my new friends from
the Army Reserve were entering the gate at the
“fort”. Fort Irwin’s name helps tell the story that
in 1846, the U.S. Army created a rock fort at nearby
Bitter Creek. From there, the U.S. Army
Mormon Battalion and others chased supposedly
marauding Apache, Shoshone and fugitive Mission
Indians from Mission San Gabriel, near Los Angeles.
Although some stole horses, guns and food from
travelers along the
Old Spanish Trail, most Indians in the Mojave
Desert exemplified the notion of nomadic loners,
seeking no contact with outsiders.
Solar plasma formation at Ivanpah
Valley, California
Soon, I came upon Ivanpah, California. Ivanpah
shares an otherwise desolate valley with Primm,
Nevada. There I got my first blinding look at the
glint and glare from the new
Brightsource Solar Thermal Plant in operation.
In May of 2012, I had passed that place during
construction of the controversial, three unit
active-solar
power generating station. At that time, the tops
of the three receiving towers were dark, as if
shrouded in black cloth.
On
this visit, I noted that the top sections of each
tower shone with white light seemingly as bright as
the sun. Shimmering in the air to one side or the
other of each receiving tower was what looked like
white mist. In reality, the mist was
solar plasma, caused by the concentration of
light from many mirrors. As operators need more
power, they use computers and electrical actuators
to change the angle of up to 356,000 mirrors, each
the size of a garage door. As a result, operators
can redirect the reflected sunlight from a focal
point in the desert sky to a receiving area at the
top of each tower. Since adjacent air temperatures
created by the solar plasma are so high, no one yet
knows the long-term effects on the desert
environment.
In a recent
Los Angeles Times article, I read that a number
of
native birds had perished in the solar flux at
Ivanpah. Some experts hypothesize that prolonged
focusing of eyes on the solar receiving towers could
burn our retinas. I thought to myself, “Shouldn’t
that be illegal?” One thing is for sure; you will no
longer
see
a
Desert Tortoise basking in Ivanpah Valley’s
desert sun. After 15,000 years of human cohabitation
with the Desert Tortoise, politicians decided that
the terrapins must go elsewhere, all in the name of
“renewable energy”. Using the double-speak of
Mega Solar; they had to “destroy the desert in
order to renew it”.
As my rig descended the grade into the Ivanpah
Valley, I kept my speed below sixty miles per hour.
Thinking that I might get a good photo of the
towers, I lowered the side window on my vehicle.
Although the ambient temperature that day was about
90 °F (32 °C), heat radiating from the solar thermal
generators was palpable on my skin. The feeling
reminded me of the rays that emanate from a
parabolic electric heater. With its vast array of
mirrors and three thermal collecting towers, I
discovered that Brightsource Primm had a “heat
island” effect far greater than even its massive
size suggested. The good news is that without the
previously available multi-billion
dollar loan guarantees and tax rebates, no further
solar thermal generating plants like Brightsource
Primm will see the light of day.
After that surreal experience, I proceeded past the
lure of Primm’s several casinos, driving north
toward Las Vegas, Nevada. My goal was to reach
Mesquite Nevada, ninety miles north of Las Vegas
before dark. With that in mind, my visit to Las
Vegas would consist of a “drive
by” on I-15 North. After almost two decades of
expansion in Las Vegas, I-15 has reached the limits
of its right-of-way. With six or eight lanes in each
direction at the southern end of The Strip, the road
and its connectors can carry a tremendous volume of
traffic. Ironically, when a driver reaches North Las
Vegas, there is usually a traffic snarl. There,
highway planners provided too few lanes to handle
the through-traffic heading out of Las Vegas to the
north, east and west.
Near
the southern end of The Strip, the
Luxor Las Vegas Hotel is visible from the I-15
freeway. In a ghostly repeat of what I had just seen
at Ivanpah, the Luxor’s thirty-story tall pyramid
reflected golden hues of sunlight off its mirrored
glass surface. Originally built in the early 1990s,
the Luxor received a makeover in 2008. In a classic
case of
Old Energy thinking, MGM Resorts International
failed to take advantage of
New Energy. Rather than retrofitting the Luxor
pyramid with photovoltaic solar panels, they opted
for the “golden glow” effect of solar reflective
glass. With business as usual in Las Vegas,
appearances trumped energy efficiency and common
sense. I wondered how much electrical energy from
Brightsource Ivanpah might be powering air
conditioners at the Luxor.
About twenty miles north of Las Vegas, I exited I-15
North at
U.S. Highway 93, also called the Great Basin
Highway. If the Ivanpah Valley is California’s
version of the new Industrial Desert, the area north
of the Las Vegas Motor Speedway and south of the
Moapa River Indian Reservation is a no man’s land
dedicated to the
Old Industrial Desert. Despite hosting a large
photovoltaic panel array to the west, an open pit
mine adjacent to I-15 and the natural gas fired
Harry Allen Generating Station dominate
the landscape. Adding environmental insult to
injury, a nearby
chemical loading depot disperses clouds of white
powder and dust across that desolate valley.
A
truck stop in the desert attracts all kinds of
people and vehicles. Other than the convenience of
yet another
Love’s Travel Center, I would not consider
stopping in such a ravaged environment. From a
person who converted his pickup truck to look like a
can of Monster Energy Drink to a severely overloaded
Nissan Titan pickup, I stood agape at the unusual
scene.
Prior to my departure, I spotted a Nevada Highway
Patrol (NHP)
vehicle exiting the parking lot. Other than some
low-slung lights on its roof and official markings
on its sides, the vehicle looked like any
contemporary Ford Ranger SUV. In order to identify
the occupant as clearly as possible, the words
“Highway Patrol” and “State Trooper” blazed across
the front fenders and doors of the dark blue
vehicle. In a nod to mobile communications, “Dial
*NHP” occupied each rear quarter panel.
Back
again on I-15 North, I steeled my eyes and made
myself ready to stare down any ersatz militiamen I
might soon encounter along the highway. Before
reaching my destination in Mesquite, I had to
transit the area held by gun-toting folks who see
rancher
Cliven Bundy as their hero. In the aptly named “Bunkerville”,
militiamen stand guard over an overgrazed desert
where rancher Bundy refuses to pay decades’ worth of
cattle grazing fees to the federal government.
Apparently, it is lost on his para militarist
protectors that if we all paid our fair share of
fees and taxes, we could create a sustainable
environment and have lower taxes for all.
<
Plush Kokopelli dives for cover at
Bunkerville, Nevada
After
taking the off ramp to Bunkerville, I lost my way
trying to find the place. Given my stand on gun
violence, perhaps it is best that I did not meet up
with any trigger-happy men dressed in camouflage
gear. On my foray into that unfamiliar world, I did
find the original Bunkerville bunker. As one might
expect, it was a windowless shack with heavy wooden
doors. Approaching the bunker cautiously, I called
out, “Cliven, Cliven… are you there?” Alas, no one
answered.
After my visit to virtual Bunkerville, I proceeded
to Mesquite and to the “Oasis
Resort Hotel and Casino”
RV Park . Only a few years ago, the Oasis Resort
had welcomed my arrival with a huge “Welcome
MoabLive.com” on their lighted message board. By
May 2014, the resort hotel, casino and even the
lighted
tower
sign were gone. From my previous visits, I knew that
Mesquite has an ongoing reputation for destroying
its
highway heritage.
I can understand
demolishing an obsolete casino, but removing the
venerable landmark that was the Oasis sign is just
plain dumb. Would Las Vegas tear down its classic
1960’s “Welcome
to Las Vegas” sign? In Mesquite’s zeal to become
a thoroughly sanitized city in the desert, it has
consistently destroyed its once quaint highway
history. After viewing the destruction, all I could
say was, “Good luck,
Mesquite, Nevada”.
Winter Camping in the Deserts of
Arizona and California
On February 9, 2009, I hooked up my
rig and pulled to
Quartzsite, AZ, where I would spend the night,
prior to a midday appointment in Phoenix, Arizona
the next day. Being two thirds of the way to
Phoenix from
Simi Valley, CA, makes it a good stopping point
on Interstate 10. As always, I stayed at the
bucolic, but efficient
Holiday Palms RV Park. With a reservation
guaranteed for late arrival, Quartzsite represented
my safe harbor for the night.
Although economic realities had
diminished the
snowbird RV-exodus to the Arizona desert this
winter, the town was still alive. Row upon row of
large RV’s lay unwanted and unloved at the temporary
dealership lots set up for a crowd that never
arrived. If Quartzsite were not on the interstate,
it would have rolled up and blown away this winter.
Still, a quiet night’s sleep in the desert is always
a good thing and I enjoyed my brief time there.
In the morning, I unhooked the
utilities from my
Pioneer travel trailer, raised the leveling
jacks and drove toward Phoenix under a clear desert
sky. The clear, cold air outside was in stark
contrast to my experiences the day and evening
before.
As I left LA, that Monday morning, it
was rainy and dark. Across the LA Basin and until I
reached the top of the
Banning Pass, it rained. Then, as if the rain
had not yet earned its place in the low desert of
California, not a sprinkle fell during my transit to
Quartzsite.
Once I was in Phoenix, I needed to
get to Dr. John Robinson’s office, within
Dr. Gino Tutera’s
SottoPelle practice in Scottsdale. With help
from my Magellan GPS, I arrived there rested and
with time to take a few deep breaths before
proceeding.
During my tour of the Phoenix freeway
system, I noticed large roadside pools of water
where I had not seen water before. At the doctor’s
office, water stood in pools throughout the
landscaping and along the walkways. When I
commented to the office manager, she indicated that
a storm had released drenching rain in Phoenix
overnight. It seems that
the storm that I watched disappear in the low
desert had rematerialized in Phoenix.
Leaving Phoenix on Tuesday afternoon,
I traveled northwest on
US Highway 93. Other than one westward jog,
where it shares a route with
Interstate 40 to Kingman, Arizona, Highway 93
makes a beeline for
Las Vegas, NV, 290 miles from Phoenix. Having
departed the
Valley of the Sun in the late afternoon,
darkness soon overtook me.
Although a long transit on a dark,
desert highway might otherwise have been a problem,
my prior stays at
Burro Creek Campground told me that I had
nothing to fear. When I arrived at Burro Creek
after dark, it took a while to find the water-fill,
but once my fresh water tank was half full; I found
a campsite adjacent to Burro Creek, itself.
Although the temperature fell towards
freezing, I was safe and warm inside. My coach is
equipped with a forced-air, propane heater and a
propane refrigerator/freezer to keep my food fresh.
Since I was dry camping, I used battery power for
all other services. With a quiet night outside and
the sound of rushing Burro Creek reaching my ears, I
experienced an easy transition from wakefulness to
sleep.
Wednesday morning, I continued
northwest on Highway 93. I intended to take I-40
West and arrive in
Needles, CA that afternoon. Early in my day’s
journey, Highway 93 climbed to higher elevations,
displaying snowy mountains on either side of the
long valley in which the highway lies.
Stopping north of Wikieup, AZ, I
discovered separate entrances to
Windmill Ranch on either side of the highway.
There, framed by the posts and crossbeam of the
ranch entrance were mountains, fresh with winter
snow. Since the highway climbs until reaching a
summit near
Kingman, AZ, I was interested to see if I might
climb above the snowline that day.
When I stopped for fuel at a travel
center on I-40, west of Kingman, snow lay across the
ground, although the roadway was dry. The snowy
landscape, juxtaposed with the big rigs entering and
leaving the truck stop provided ample contrast for
my camera.
Leaving the travel center, I
descended the long grade towards Kingman. Along the
way, a tour bus zoomed past me at seventy miles per
hour. It was the tour bus for the
Harlem Globetrotters, rocketing towards a Las
Vegas exhibition match.
At Kingman, the two highways
diverged, with Highway 93 heading northwest towards
Las Vegas. Interstate 40, which was my route,
turned almost due south. With few roadside
attractions on that sixty-five mile strip of arid
desert, the trip to Needles became a moving
meditation. Approaching Needles, the interstate
turns west and finally north, avoiding mountain
ranges and seeking a good river crossing along the
way.
Near Needles, there are separate
bridges across the
Colorado River for motor vehicles, the
Burlington Northern Santa Fe Railroad and
natural gas transmission pipelines. A concentration
of electrical transmission lines follows this route,
as well. At that crossing, conduits for almost all
of our Old Energy and transportation services
converge. The reason for this convergence of
services is the topography on either side of the
Colorado River.
In 1890, the Santa Fe Railroad built
the first
bridge across the Colorado River, near Needles.
Since railroad surveyors plan rail lines with
minimum elevation changes, the steep and solid
riverbanks at Needles helped the railroad reduce
both construction and operating costs. When the
railroad bridge was relocated just upstream in 1945,
a new Route 66 bridge soon replaced the
original
railroad bridge. At that time, the 1916 highway
bridge, known as
Trails Arch Bridge, was decommissioned for
vehicle traffic.
Now used as an oil and
gas pipeline bridge, the nearly one hundred year old
structure looks like a contemporary industrial
icon. When I-40 replaced Old-66 in the 1960s, a new
highway bridge again spanned the river. Not
ironically, the current I-40 bridge occupies the
same space that the original railroad bridge did in
1890.
Once I arrived in Needles, I
proceeded to the
Desert View Mobil Station, where I had twice
bought tires for my trailer. That second set of
tires coincided with complete replacement of the
brakes and active suspension linkages on my coach.
With
Desert View’s lifetime warrantee, I hoped to get
my brakes fixed free. Not only had one brake
stopped operating, loose parts clanged away inside
the brake assembly. When I rolled in, the regular
crew was there to greet me. Before nightfall, they
had replaced the faulty brake assembly and diagnosed
a separate electrical problem with my trailer
brakes.
Once the wheels were back on the
trailer, I headed west, up the long grade on the
California side of the river. My destination was
the
Hole in the Wall Campground at the
Mojave National Preserve, campsite for my last
night before returning to LA. Since the campground
is twenty miles off the interstate, it takes a while
to get there. As twilight turned to darkness, I
arrived at the sparsely occupied campground.
In the spring and fall, the
campground is busy, with many of the thirty-five
campsites occupied. At an elevation of 4400 feet,
with remnants of snowfall still occupying shaded
areas, it was a cold 34 degrees f. when I arrived.
Unaware of how cold it might be at that elevation, I
had thawed a steak earlier that day. Unwilling to
let my steak go uncooked, I bundled up in a heavy
jacket, gloves and muffler before I ventured outside
to grill the meat.
Once I was back inside for the night,
I watched a DVD movie, did some writing on my laptop
computer, ran the heater and enjoyed the lights.
Around bedtime, I realized that I had drained at
least half of the available electrical current from
my house batteries. “Whoops”, I said to myself. “I
hope there is enough life in the batteries to spin
the furnace motor when I need it.”
The next morning, it was cold in the
coach. I checked the monitor panel and found the
batteries in a critically low state of charge. I
was too cold to go outside and set up my portable
Honda generator, which could easily recharge the
batteries. The only other power source was my
Nissan Titan truck. Braving the elements, I
sprinted outside and started the engine. Soon,
electricity flowed from the alternator on the truck
to the house batteries. That allowed me to restart
the furnace and warm the coach.
Well warmed, with a mug of hot coffee
in my gloved hands, I then ventured out to set up
and start the Honda generator. After turning off
the truck engine, I retreated inside to make
breakfast while the generator recharged the
batteries. In less than an hour, the house
batteries were full and operating properly.
In a flash of late brilliance, I
remembered that a quiet night at Burro Creek's 1,960
foot elevation was not like a deep-freeze night at
4400 feet. This was especially true after running
all of my electrically powered services. Since
electrical systems operate less efficiently at low
temperatures, it is a lesson I will recall next time
I winter camp in the California desert.
On Thursday morning, as the Sun began
to warm the air, I ventured out to take pictures of
canyons, mesas and mountains shrouded in snow. Snow
typically lasts only a few days in this
arid land. This being the third day since the
winter storm, it was indeed a treat to photograph a
vast, yet intimate bit of desert. I felt as if I
were going back in time, to epochs long forgotten.
There, I viewed a winter scene, much as it looked
before ancient climate changes created my spiritual
home, the desert. As
always,
The Great Reflector stood guard over all.
Returning from my
New Earth, I departed the campground, stopping
at the RV dump along the way. When I opened the
valve to release the gray water from its holding
tank, nothing happened. After about fifteen
seconds, the gray water, warmed by my recent hot
shower, released and dumped down the hose. Next, I
opened the black water valve. It dumped
immediately. Luckily, the previous owner of my
coach had installed a
heater on the black water pipe. That heater had
been the unseen energy thief, draining my batteries
overnight. That thief was now a godsend. If that
pipe remained frozen, I would face a long drive home
with a full holding tank, which meant both a heavy
and noxious issue to deal with later.
Travel trailer manufacturers design
their coaches for spring, summer and fall camping,
not for freezing weather, parked far away from a
reliable electrical supply. By stretching my own
limits a bit, I realized that winter camping in the
desert is gloriously fun, if different from warm
weather camping. Still, the rare opportunity to
travel almost 1000 miles and camp in three different
desert sub-climates was, for me, yet another trip of
a lifetime.