US Highway 395, approaching Mavericks Stadium in Adelanto, California
In addition to building subways and elevated trains, the Los Angeles County Metropolitan Transit Authority has been expanding and improving their rapid bus network. Margaret and I took the first of the rapid bus lines in 2001. These extra-long red buses have electronic mechanisms that can change traffic lights so they always have the right of way. They stop about every mile, and they automatically announce and make every stop; you don't have to mess with pulling a cord to signal you want off the bus. The rapid network now includes four routes, and for a bit of rest after a long morning or hiking, I decided to ride one of them the entire length of the line.
I took the Vermont Avenue rapid bus, and in the process I got about as much of a slice of the city as I could possibly get anywhere. . I've taken some buses (like down Cicero Avenue in Chicago) where you basically see the same thing for mile after mile. On Vermont Avenue, though, I once again had an ever-changing view as I headed from one block to the next. Just south of Los Feliz is the Sunset Medical District, home to half a dozen major hospitals and their associated clinics. Beyond that is a neighborhood some call Nuevo Salvador. The word "el" is implied between those two Spanish years, for instead of a new savior, the neighborhood is home thousands of immigrants from El Salvador-not to mention the Mexican-Americans you find in virtually every L.A. neighborhood. I had walked through part of this neighborhood before; it looks a lot like the commercial strips in Chicago.
For a stretch south of Nuevo Salvador the population changes to south Asian. I passed by the Los Angeles Islamic Center, a lovely mosque with plain stucco walls accented by intricate carvings and ironwork. South of there the signs change languages as you enter Koreatown. With 200,000 residents-most second or third generation-this is by far the largest Korean community outside of Asia.
Beyond Koreatown is an upper-class Black neighborhood called Washington Park. Further south still is "Trojan Town", the student-oriented neighborhood surrounding the University of Southern California. My mind, which is often prone to fits of adolescent humor, got a kick out of a display in a pharmacy window that said "Trojans, Be Prepared" above an assortment of the condoms of that name. South of U.S.C. is Exposition Park, home to two Olympics and surrounded by an upscale multi-racial neighborhood. The neighborhood rapidly deteriorates beyond Exposition Park. Martin Luther King Boulevard is basically the northern boundary of "South Central", the neighborhood the city council officially renamed "South L.A." in hopes the new name might sound less like the setting for Boyz 'n the Hood.
Whatever its reputation, South Central is certainly not the worst slum in America. It has a lot more commercial development than Chicago's south or west sides. That business keeps people on the streets. This is one of the most active neighborhoods I've seen anywhere in America. The sidewalks were packed with people, and so was the bus.
* * * * *
Residential South Central is not nearly so nice as the business strip. This is the bungalow belt, shabby miniscule homes with only about a foot between one and the next. On every roof there's a battered TV antenna, a sure sign that nobody here is watching those hip-hop shows on MTV. Everybody has a tiny walled-in back yard, usually filled with junk. If there's a front yard, it's generally where they park the old clunker that is the family car.
Mentioning cars reminds me of another thing. It's amazing how many old cars you see in California. I suppose that in the good weather they don't rust, but I'd think sooner or later they'd give up the ghost anyway. There are still lots of bad old cars from the '60s and'70s going strong on the streets of L.A. With gas in the city averaging about $2 a gallon (and more like $2.25 in inner city neighborhoods), I'd hate to think what it would cost to drive an old Impala or El Camino, but lots of people do it.
Beyond the city proper South Central continues into the inner suburbs. Places like Inglewood, Hawthorne, and Gardena look quite a lot worse than Los Angeles itself. The bus went through an area (in Gardena, I think) that reminded me a lot of much of Chicago's south side. A lot of it had been torn down, but not replaced by anything. There were vast vacant lots filled with trash that served as playgrounds for poor Black and Hispanic kids. In some ways the space is nice, compared to the cramped conditions further north. Vacant lots are pretty much never a good thing in cities, though.
While Vermont Avenue actually continues another twelve miles south all the way to San Pedro, where the port of Los Angeles is located, the rapid bus ends at the green line train station in the middle of I-105 (the Century Freeway) in Hawthorne. I used another token, plus a quarter for a transfer and went downstairs to the train platform. Unlike the Chicago 'L' stations, which are located between overpasses, L.A.'s green line stations are generally right underneath a single overpass. That funnels the freeway noise and makes the platforms deafeningly loud. It's kind of surprising that the newer train system is the one with the flawed design, but it's definitely flawed and it truly is annoying. I'm not normally as sensitive to noise as-say-Margaret, but I quickly got a headache on this platform. It was all I could do to wait there ten minutes for a train to come.
I rode the green line three stations east, to Rosa Parks station. A lot of L.A.'s stations are officially named after people, but this is the only one that anyone other than the MTA seems to call by the secondary name. That's probably because Mrs. Parks is a person people can relate to. The other stations are named after people who aren't even locally famous (basically they were named as political favors). At any rate, when people give directions they say "transfer at Rosa Parks", even though the signs in the station say "Imperial & Wilmington".
Rosa Parks is really two separate stations that are sort of vaguely connected with each other. The green line station is in the middle of the freeway, which is elevated at this point. Its only exit is to a park-and-ride lot. To get to the blue line you have to walk under the freeway and about a block east to the actual junction that the signs give as the station location. The tracks themselves are in a trench slightly below ground level and just west of the intersection. There's basically no signage in the station telling you how to make the transfer, and if pretty much everyone else on the train hadn't been doing the same thing, I probably would have gotten lost.
I had another loud wait on the blue line platform, though this one was a little bit quieter. Rosa Parks station is not in the best of neighborhoods (Watts), and a number of guide books advise tourists against using the train because it requires making a transfer here. The station is busy and well patrolled, though, and while I was just about the only white person on the platform I certainly didn't feel in any danger.
The crime that the officers who were patrolling the station seemed most concerned about was fare evasion. All the trains in Los Angeles use honor system ticketing. You're supposed to buy a ticket from the vending machines before you board, and if you take more than one train, you're supposed to buy a transfer with your ticket. Three different officers were inspecting tickets on the packed blue line platform at Rosa Parks, and I saw two different people receiving citations in about a ten-minute period. There's an automatic $250 fine for first offense, and court appearances are required for subsequent violations. Fare evaders are also fingerprinted on the spot (they cops have a special machine that records the prints digitally), and a check is made for any outstanding warrants. I personally think it would probably be cheaper to install turnstiles than to pay all these cops, but I am glad that they do at least enforce their laws.
I'm always amazed that almost anywhere I travel people end up asking me for directions. I've always tried to use the street-smart strategy that the best way to prevent crime is to look like you know where you're going; maybe I do look that way. I may also look non-threatening. After all, it's probably not the middle-aged white guy you're going to worry about on a train platform in the middle of Watts. Whatever the reason, I can now add Los Angeles to places like Chicago, New Orleans, Washington, Madrid, and Paris, where I've given directions to locals who you'd think would know their own city.
First a Hispanic boy of about college age asked me which side of the platform he should be on to catch the train for Vernon. Vernon is an industrial suburb just south of downtown L.A., part of the "industrial hell" Margaret and I went through on Amtrak just before arriving at Union Station. It was probably convenient that I had just read about Vernon's one and only tourist attraction, an enormous mural with a bucolic depiction of farm life that covers the side of a sausage factory. I wasn't certain that there was a blue line stop for Vernon, but I knew if there was it would be north of Watts, so I was able to direct the guy to the northbound side of the platform. (It turns out that there is indeed a Vernon station, so my directions were entirely correct.)
I myself boarded a southbound train. Once aboard a large elderly black woman who looked very confused (she was almost in tears) asked if I knew where the Willow station was. I vaguely was aware that Willow was a station on the blue line, but I really didn't know where it was. However I knew that pretty much every transit system anywhere has maps in the cars. Indeed there was one on the wall right in front of me, which would also have been easily in view of the woman. (I wonder, looking back on it, if she might not have been illiterate, though.) I quickly checked the map and confirmed to the woman that she was headed the right way and that her station was five stops ahead. She seemed relieved, but then had to re-confirm this information with each station we passed. She seemed confused when we passed the Artesia station. That stop is named after a street in the city of Compton, but I think she thought it was named after a suburb that probably fifteen miles from where we actually were. As we reached Willow, the woman was concerned about whether she would have to somehow signal the driver that she wanted off at Willow, and I assured her that the trains automatically stopped at every station. She got off at Willow, but then she again seemed confused and disoriented on the platform there. As the train left, I saw her asking a young black man on the platform for further directions. I do hope she eventually got where she wanted to go.
I took the blue line southward mostly because this was the one place Margaret and I hadn't gone when we were out here before. We had made it as far south as Rosa Parks on that trip, but then we headed west on the green line to Redondo Beach. This time I took the train all the way to the end of the line in Long Beach. We first went through Compton, which TV and movies depict as the gang violence capital of the nation. From the train it's a surprisingly pleasant suburb. South of Compton is Carson, an industrial suburb I knew best as the home of the location shots for Station 51 on the TV show Emergency. Today it still looks remarkably like the dumpy suburb it was on '70s TV, though middle-class Hispanics have replaced white families that Roy and Johnny served. Just beyond Carson the tracks cross two major freeways (I-710 and I-405) and the train enters Long Beach.
Long Beach is really a major city in its own right, rather than a suburb. With around 500,000 people (in an area smaller than Iowa City) Long Beach is the fourth largest city in California (after L.A., San Diego, and San Jose-but bigger than San Francisco and Sacramento). Long Beach is one of the nation's biggest ports (bigger than the Port of Los Angeles), and it also has an enormous yacht harbor. There is a huge naval base here, lots of factories, and at least three different oil refineries. It's really not a major tourist destination, though, and I could see why. While it's a pleasant enough city, there's really not much other than curiosity to draw someone here.
One interesting sight in Long Beach was a brand new Wal-Mart, the only urban location of that chain I have ever seen. I've always wondered why Wal-Mart doesn't expand to the inner city. I've seen busy K-Marts throughout Chicago, New York, and L.A.; it's those big city locations that aren't closing with the chain in financial trouble. Wal-Mart, though, always seems to locate in the suburbs--usually way out in the suburbs. I'm not at all a fan of Wal-Mart, but I'd think it would just make good business sense for them to open locations in big cities. There are after all millions of people who live there, most of whom would be good prospects to shop at discount stores and many of whom don't have good transportation to get out to the suburbs. Still, Long Beach is the only place in America I've seen a Wal-Mart that wasn't on a suburban strip.
I got off at 1st Street, the next to last station on the line. I walked around Long Beach's rather dull downtown and happened upon a local street fair and flea market, Fiesta Long Beach. There was really nothing much to see there either, but it was fun to walk around for a while. I browsed through some of the stalls, but all I bought were a couple of rather disgusting tacos (filled with cilantro, an herb I've never much cared for). I then made my way past some homeless people to the last downtown station (Transit Mall) and headed back to Los Angeles.
I missed out on the two things the guidebooks call "must sees" in Long Beach. Permanently docked there is the elegant passenger liner Queen Mary, which also served as a troop ship in World War II. It's awkward to get to, though, and the admission is outrageous ($20+). Also charging an arm and a leg was the Aquarium of the Pacific. I've never really been a fish person (either live or on the plate), so anything more than a nominal admission would have been more than I cared to pay for that anyway.
It's about twenty-five miles from downtown Long Beach to downtown Los Angeles, and the trip takes almost exactly an hour by train. It starts off as a street trolley in Long Beach, stopping at every traffic light. The rest of the line alternates between ground level and elevated. Stations are very far apart in Carson and Compton, but once you get to Los Angeles the train stops every mile or so. North of Rosa Parks station the route looked familiar, if not exactly pleasant. I recognized the Watts Towers, the crowded bungalows of South Central, and the Hispanic church Margaret and I had seen two years ago whose sign read "una voz que clama en el desierto" (a voice cries out in the wilderness). After passing the bleak industrial scar that is Vernon the train again becomes a street trolley, running down Washington Boulevard just south of downtown L.A. It turns north right by the Staples Center arena and then plunges into a tunnel to run through downtown in the subway.
Along the way there are countless at-grade crossings. The blue line was built very cheaply, and almost none of it follows an exclusive right-of-way. All those grade crossings have apparently made this the single most dangerous rail line in the country. They've had nearly a hundred accidents and a dozen deaths. They're supposedly retrofitting most of the crossings with gates that reach all the way across all lanes of traffic, so people can't try to go around them. That's still not as secure as the moving fences they have on the few grade crossings on the Chicago 'L', but it would be an improvement. I'm certainly not going to defend anyone who tries to drive or walk around a crossing gate, it does seem rather stupid to build a high-speed rail line (55 mph in some sections) in a dense urban area with street crossings. It really does seem like an accident waiting to happen. Apparently large parts of the new gold line to Pasadena are also at grade. They wanted to make the whole thing elevated, but funding cuts by the Bush administration forced a change in design. I can only hope they have a better safety record in Pasadena than they've had in Watts.
The blue line ends at 7th St.-Metro Center station, which MTA has also named after Julian Dixon, a name that no actual person seems to use. As the train stopped at Metro center, I had yet another request for directions. An dumpy-looking middle-aged blonde woman asked where she should go "to get on them big trains that go out to San Ber'do". Since I had come on one of those very trains, it was easy to tell her to head downstairs to the red line and board a train destined for Union Station.
It would be awhile before one of "them big trains" would be leaving, so I killed a bit more time downtown before returning to Union Station myself. It amused me as I headed up to street level to pass the same "Tomatobank" ATM I had used two years ago. I left familiarity behind, though, as I turned south and followed Figueroa Avenue south through the Financial District. This is definitely the liveliest part of downtown, at least during business hours. The buildings are all glass towers housing banks and brokerage firms on their upper floors and snooty shops and coffee bars at street level. Though it still lacks much "real" shopping, this area does have much the same energy you'd find in Chicago's Loop, and it serves essentially the same function.
I walked around downtown for about twenty minutes and then returned to Metro Center. I headed back to Union Station (again a free ride with the Metrolink ticket) and killed a little bit more time at the gift shop there. As soon as they announced that the 3:20 train was ready for boarding, I headed straight to the platform. I'm glad I did, because it was crowded. Only the back car was really empty when I boarded, and it quickly filled up. By the time we left it was standing room only, and it remained that way until Rancho Cucamonga.
I was in a window seat, facing backwards. Beside me was a businesswoman who spent the entire trip checking her voice mail and returning calls on her cell phone. Facing me was a Marine ... who spent the entire trip reading various articles about the war in Iraq in the Los Angeles Times. Next to him was a man in a business suit who slept all the way to Fontana. (I hope his destination was beyond there.) Across the aisle were three college girls who basically appeared to be tourists and a used car dealer who had apparently come into to the city on business. The man alternated between flirting with the girls and answering his constantly ringing cell phone. I read through the Spanish paper La Opinión and then watched the scenery go by. Things seemed to go quicker this direction, even though at about every third stop we had to pause extra-long so the train didn't get ahead of schedule. We reached Fontana slightly early, at about 4:30.
The Lancer was right where I left it. I got in, left the park-and-ride, and headed up Sierra Avenue. Sierra is a busy four lane street downtown, and it's an important commercial strip to the south. Heading north, though, the area rapidly becomes residential, and soon the street changes to two lanes. At the very north end of Fontana, the area looks almost rural-or it would if there weren't housing "communities" about every half mile (starting around $200,000 here) and land being bulldozed for others in between.
Just north of Fontana Sierra Avenue ends at Interstate 15 (the Mojave Freeway). I was shocked to see northbound traffic backed up as far as I could see, though when I thought about it, it made perfect sense. This was a holiday weekend, and I-15 is the road from Los Angeles to Las Vegas. In addition to the usual commuters and truckers, there were thousands of people taking a weekend getaway in Sin City.
I was surprised that I managed to merge onto the freeway easily. That's something I have to grudgingly give Californians credit for. While they drive insanely fast (except when, like now, they are stuck in traffic jams), they're really very polite drivers. It seems to be an unwritten rule that you have to make room to let people merge or change lanes. There's also not the tailgating you see in Minneapolis or Chicago; people seem to leave pretty reasonable cushions between themselves and the traffic ahead. I don't think I saw anyone talking on a cell phone in traffic, which was another pleasant surprise.
I-15 is eight lanes wide across Cajon Pass. The problem was that there was a tiny area of construction on the shoulder, which bottlenecked all that Vegas-bound traffic and made us crawl over the pass at about 20mph. Cajon is a major pass, probably the second steepest interstate pass I've ever traversed (after I-70 west of Denver). The summit is only 4,259 feet, but you start virtually at sea level, so it's still quite a climb. They have signs advising you to turn off your air conditioner to keep you car from overheating. That wasn't an issue today, but it gives you an idea of what a long, steep climb it is. The road winds through a narrow canyon for about ten miles, and I was glad that both a shoulder and a guardrail separated me from what was probably a 1000-foot drop-off.
I exited the freeway just over the pass and turned off onto U.S. highway 395. This is a road that long ago outgrew its design. It reminded me of the days before they built I-380, when 218 and 30 ran together west of Cedar Rapids. 395 is the only major highway in eastern California, but it's a two-lane stream of solid traffic. This is a major trucking artery. Pretty much any shipment that doesn't originate in Los Angeles that is destined for points north is likely to go up 395, since the alternative would be to go all the way into L.A., fight city traffic, and then head over a bottlenecked pass on Interstate 5. They really should four-lane (or even six-lane) 395, and it would be pretty easy to do so, given that the surrounding land is basically flat desert. I don't think a four-lane is even on the drawing board, though. From the state's point of view, this highway goes nowhere. They don't seem to care how busy it is.
Highway 395 runs just west of Victorville. There are about half a million people nearby, but the road itself is basically rural. As I drove northward for about ten miles I could entirely relate to an article I recently read on a website:
You know the scene from the movies. The cowboys in white hats gallop up the wind-whipped plateau chasing the guys in black hats as tumbleweeds blow by. "We'll cut them off at the pass," says the leader. The scene continues as the horses reach the top of the hill and suddenly, there ahead of them is...a baseball park?
This paragraph was written by Bill Carib, a gentleman who is in the process of visiting every professional baseball stadium in America in one season. It is an absolutely apt description of the setting for Brad Nelson's workplace. "Friendly Mavericks Stadium" literally is completely in the middle of nowhere. There is a convenience store and a small fast food place next door, but otherwise there are nothing but power lines and Joshua trees for over a mile in any direction.
More on the park later. For now, though, the strangely located stadium served as a fitting welcome to one of the strangest places I've ever visited: Adelanto, California. According to the local Chamber of Commerce, "Adelanto" means "I move ahead" in Spanish, and they describe the town as a progressive and forward-looking place. It would be hard to think of a less accurate description of the town. It reminded me a lot of Thoreau, the dumpy little Indian town where my brother Steve lived in New Mexico. Like the Navajo country, everything in Adelanto is ridiculously spread out; it's basically the opposite of how things are south of the pass. The public buildings here are palatial, looking like modern copies of old Spanish missions. What housing there is, though, is disgusting. The biggest employer in Adelanto appears to be a federal prison, the nearest neighbor to Mavericks Stadium other than the convenience store. There is also a big cement plant nearby (with cheap apartments built directly under its dust), a battery plant, an oil recycling center, and other less than savory industry. There doesn't appear to be any zoning here, so things are just built wherever and however the owners please. Adelanto supposedly has over 12,000 people, but I don't know where they live-probably in the prison. Except for a couple of convenience stores and the one fast food place, there is no business here either. In fact there are unquestionably more boarded up businesses than there are active places. Among the places that closed up shop are a strip club, a bar that had to have been seedy, two motels, and a casino. (How does a casino go out of business?) I've never seen any place quite like Adelanto, and with any luck I'll never see another.
I had made reservations to stay at Adelanto's one remaining motel, a Day's Inn. Day's Inns are never nice places. Pretty much every one of their properties used to be part of a better chain, but lost its franchise and traded down. The motels are always old, and they're often not well kept up. I would be paying less here than I did at the Motel 6 in Fontana, so I had very low expectations. I wasn't disappointed. From the outside the Day's Inn didn't look too bad. It was a two-story stucco place with an outdoor pool that would have fit in well on a suburban strip. That wasn't exactly its location, however. The sign at Bartlett Avenue reads "Adelanto Business District", and perhaps at some point decades ago that was an accurate description of the area. Today the Day's Inn stands between two boarded up gas stations, across the street from the city police station and in front of a public housing complex. It's not exactly prime real estate, but then neither is anything else in Adelanto.
I shocked the desk clerk at the Day's Inn twice. First, this young Hispanic woman was definitely not expecting anyone to show up at 5:45 in the afternoon. No one checks into the Adelanto Day's Inn in the afternoon. The customers here appear to be mostly truckers. They arrive late and leave early. There were literally no cars in the parking lot when I showed up. What surprised her even more, though, was that I was staying for more than one night. Absolutely no one (but me, that is) uses this motel as anything more than a waystop between places with more to offer. At first she thought the reservation was wrong because the price was too expensive (she thought the total for three nights was for one). When I assured her it was a multi-night stay, she gave me a very strange look. She totaled the bill, though, and she programmed my key card to work for the duration of my stay. (It showed up on my credit card, though, as if it were a one-night stay; I'm not sure she knew how to record more than one night on the forms.)
While it was hard to get past the location, the room I had was reasonably serviceable. (Yes, that's damning with faint praise-exactly as intended.) It was small and well worn, but generally clean. The king-sized bed was comfortable, there were no insects in the room, and the heat worked (note that it was heat, rather than air conditioning that was relevant). The lighting was absurdly dim, but I've encountered that in far too many motels. One of the best things about Motel 6 is that they use fluorescent lights, which makes the rooms much brighter. There was a patch in the plaster where it looked as if someone had literally punched a hole in the wall, and two of the lamps were missing the screws that was supposed to hold their shades in place. There was missing tile in the bathroom, but the plumbing worked and the shower actually had a good amount of force. There was a large color TV, but it only got broadcast channels. The room was probably worth the $40 a night I paid, but only because lodging is generally more expensive in California. Campsites around here go for $25 a night. If I have a reason to visit Adelanto in the future, I'll probably splurge and pay $50 at that Red Roof Inn in Victorville where the ballplayers were mugged.
I showered quickly and then almost immediately headed back to Mavericks Stadium. Brad had put my name on the pass list, so I stopped at the "will call" window to pick up a ticket. The man there asked me where I wanted to sit. To me that depended on whether Brad would be playing. The man confirmed that there was no chance at all that he would be in the game, so I settled for a seat right behind the Mavericks' dugout.
Mavericks Stadium is a beautiful ballpark. The stadium is built so that you walk down from the parking lot to the seats, with the field itself probably 30 feet below ground level. That's an interesting design, and it makes an attractive place to watch a game. The field is immaculately maintained, which is quite an accomplishment in a place called "High Desert". The seats are patriotic red and blue, and the stadium walls are a very attractive brown brick (about the color they use for Target stores). The strangest thing about the stadium is its ornamental roof, which is basically a big hunk of corrugated sheet metal painted teal.
The concessions are just about the weakest thing at the stadium. I ate my way through the Midwest League while following Brad around last summer. Each stadium there seemed to have a signature food, and some had full food courts with every choice imaginable. Here there wasn't much more than hot dogs and nachos-not even the tacos or churros you'd expect in southern California. They don't even serve their beverages in team logo cups, so I couldn't order a Pepsi and get a souvenir. The gift shop (really more like a vendor's cart) doesn't offer much either. I had assumed I'd pick up a bunch of junk there, but I ended up buying absolutely nothing. Beloit (where Brad played last summer) didn't have much of a ballpark, but they knew how to market their logo. Of course a cute little turtle is probably more in demand than an ugly cowboy hat logo.
They do have a good mascot at High Desert. The team is the Mavericks, and the live mascot is some sort of a bovine. He, she, or it made their way through the stadium greeting literally everyone in attendance without being pushy about it. That's tough to pull off. I've seen mascots who were really annoying as they tried to get fans to embarrass themselves, and I've seen others who pretty much did nothing all night long. Here the mascot struck a very nice balance.
About half an hour before game time Brad came out of the dugout, obviously looking for me. He seemed genuinely pleased that I had actually come and waved me down to the fence beside the dugout. We had a long chat as he filled me in on exactly what was up with him. I wouldn't normally delve into a friend's medical condition in a travelogue like this, but journalists have reported it in far more detail and it's been a topic for discussion groups all over the internet, so I suppose it's no great breach of privacy to bring it up here. Brad broke his hamate, a small wishbone-shaped bone at the base of the thumb. Ballplayers call this the "hammie", and apparently breaking it is one of the most common injuries in baseball. (It's also a big problem in golf.) Brad, like many power hitters, rests the knob of the bat right at the base of his thumb when he swings. This isn't strictly the best form (you're supposed to choke up a bit precisely to prevent such injuries), but it gives more power in the swing. ... He has had some wrist pain for a while, but one bad swing caused the break, and after that he literally couldn't hold a bat. He filled me in on all the details of the diagnosis, but the end result was that he would be having surgery next week to have the bone completely removed and that he would probably be out for about half the season. (So much for my back-up plan of seeing him play at Memorial Day.) He was in good spirits, but bored (he spends the games timing people running to first base), and he was obviously frustrated to see this obstacle thrown up right when he had been doing so well.
Game time neared, and Brad had to go. We agreed to meet after the game. I really wish I hadn't agreed to that, because if I hadn't I would have left early. I was already tired from a very full day, and it turned out to be a very dull game. (The same game would have seemed dull even if Brad had been playing.) More important, though, it was COLD! It was 42 when the game started at 7:05, and the temperature rapidly dropped to around freezing. Then there was the wind. Mavericks Stadium is notorious for being a home run launching pad (it would be the perfect park for Brad, if he were playing) because there's always a brisk wind blowing in the desert. It was definitely not a launching pad tonight, because this evening the wind was blowing straight in-and straight at he handful of foolhardy fans scattered around the stadium. My lined suede jacket is normally sufficient on all but the coldest winter days. Today, though, I was shivering. I wanted a parka and a heavy scarf and gloves. I almost went out to the car and listened to the game on the radio (and honestly, that's probably what I should have done), but I couldn't bring myself to let the engine idle at $2 a gallon. So I downed hot chocolate after hot chocolate and absolutely froze as I watched the Mavericks lose a pointless and boring game.
The view from Mavericks Stadium is hardly spectacular. Pretty much all you see beyond the outfield are power lines and Joshua trees. It would be much prettier if they turned the stadium 180o. Then the crowd would look out over the snow-capped San Bernardino Mountains. The reason they don't is that wind. Most of the time the wind blows from the southwest, and if they turned things around wind and sand would be constantly blowing right into everyone's face. Looking toward the power lines it's only unfortunate nights like tonight that you have to put up with the wind blowing in.
There were some really annoying fans a few rows behind me. Opening night they had given away "cheer sticks", those long thin plastic-covered foam things you strike against each other to make noise. (They were sponsored by Pepsi, and I'd love to have gotten a set for my collection.) One set of fans had those sticks, and they felt compelled to make up for the lack of other fans in the stadium by making noise enough for 3,000 people. There were also two young ladies from Lancaster (lan-CAS-ter, with the accent on the middle syllable), home of the opposing team. Lancaster was winning big, and they were really rubbing it in. The fans in Wisconsin would not have been so polite to opposing fans who were screaming so enthusiastically. At best the girls would have gotten an "ah, shut up", and it might well have gotten ugly. This was laid-back California, though, and about all anyone did was give them a dirty look.
I left the second last out was recorded. I had agreed to meet Brad, and I knew from experience that would mean a wait of about half an hour, so I killed a bit of time by going to that fast food place next to the stadium. I figured that even if the food was no good, the place would at least be heated. Actually it turned out to be quite a good little restaurant. Bravo (with the motto "we applaud your choice") can't seem to decide whether it's a fast food place or a diner. They have an extremely extensive menu ranging from burgers to authentic Mexican food to all-day breakfast. If you eat in the food is served on plastic dishes that have to be washed, while if you get things to go they are wrapped in paper of placed in foam boxes. Everything is cooked to order, which seems to take forever but makes for tasty cuisine. I had a ham and cheese sandwich that was made with a grilled slice of real ham, together with the requisite California lemonade. It was really delicious.
One strange thing about Bravo was that all their paper supplies-the sandwich wrappers, the fry bags, etc.-said at the bottom "PHIL 4-13". Curious as to just what this reference was, I looked got out the Gideon Bible back at the motel. "I have strength for anything through Him who gives me power" doesn't exactly seem appropriate for a restaurant, but that's what Philippians 4:13, says. I assume the owners don't go to any of the churches I've ever been associated with.
The wind was blowing even more fiercely when Brad got back to the parking lot. No sensible person would want to stand around in that, so we just said a quick good-night, and I went back to the motel. This had been a very long day, and I was still suffering a bit of jet lag, so I quickly settled in for a good night's sleep.
... I was ... up a little before 6:00 this morning. I quickly showered and dressed and set off for the adventures of the day.
First I drove around beautiful downtown Adelanto. Nothing was open yet, but a few people were waiting at bus stops. Even though it seems like the middle of nowhere, the fact that city buses run here tells you you're not too far from serious population. ...
I drove southward on 395, which was pleasantly free of traffic early on a weekend morning, and turned east on California highway 18, also known as Palmdale Road after another high desert suburb 44 miles west of here. The Adelanto end of Palmdale Road is pretty much undeveloped, but as you head eastward, it rapidly becomes more important. The first thing of importance I passed was Silverado High School, one of the most enormous and lavish schools I've ever seen. It looks a lot more like a community college or even a small university than a high school. It's a true campus, with at least half a dozen major buildings including an observatory. I tried to imagine how the thousands of students at this school would feel if they saw Bishop Garrigan.
Beyond Silverado there are a series of "communities", and then Palmdale Road becomes a major commercial strip. It's really a lovely shopping area, which made me ponder the one bit of news I knew about it. Last week there was an armed robbery at a small bank branch in the Target store on Palmdale Road. One of the robbers was shot to death while fleeing through the Target parking lot. I drove right past that Target store, which just as easily could have been in Ankeny, and pondered the horrible crime.
Crime is a serious problem in the Victorville area. ... A lot of it comes from extremely rapid growth (the population more than doubled in the 1990s) and a highly transient population. They're also on some of the nation's busiest interstates, making it convenient for out-of-town criminals to come in from Los Angeles, Las Vegas, and Phoenix. The area is apparently has the nation's highest concentration of meth labs (an honor I'd have thought we had locked up in Iowa), and it's also supposed to be a major transfer point for other drugs. Adding to everything else is downturn in the economy coupled with the Bush administration's closure of nearby military bases. ... Fortunately I was not a crime victim--neither today nor at any other time during this trip. I've been very fortunate that way in all my travels, and I certainly hope that good fortune continues.
I turned off Palmdale Road onto I-15, which is eight lanes in a trench through Victorville. Just north of Victorville, though, the road reduces to four lanes as you enter the truly rural Mojave Desert. There is no population anywhere nearby, but that doesn't stop this from being a very heavily traveled road. In fact, they're in the process of six-laning the highway all the way from Victorville to Las Vegas (about 200 miles, with about 120 that needs widening). ... The construction is nasty. They've maintained two continuous lanes in each direction, but in most cases one of those lanes is a former shoulder. For some bizarre reason they insist that the trucks drive in the shoulder lane, rather than on the real surfaced road, so things just get torn up more. Since the shoulder itself is in use, there is no shoulder-left or right-for ten miles or more at a time, and in some cases there are cement barriers on both the left and right for nearly that long of a stretch. Other times there's nothing but orange cones separating people who are actually working from traffic that continues to speed along at 80.
The six-laning project appears to be just about the only maintenance I-15 has had since the Eisenhower administration. California seems to maintain freeways reasonably well in urban areas, but they just leave the rural roads to go to pot. A great deal of the problem is that much of the surface is asphalt, which just doesn't hold up well in heavy traffic. I was also appalled at how badly they maintained their signs. It's rare that a week goes by before a damaged freeway sign in Iowa is replaced, and most signs on side roads in our state are also well maintained. There were a number of signs along I-15, though, that were virtually unreadable. Some had been vandalized, but most just looked as if no one had bothered to replace them when they weathered.
Victor Valley residents refer to Barstow as "up the hill". It's more like at the top of the mountain. Barstow's elevation is actually about 1,000 feet lower than Victorville, but just south of Barstow there's a major pass that's a steep climb in either direction. I suppose the reason they make the trucks keep right, even if they are tearing up the shoulder, is because in the left lane all those speeders would be plowing into the slow-moving trucks. I kept alternating between braking for the trucks in the right lane and flooring it so I wouldn't get hit in the left lane. Neither made for very pleasant driving.
In Barstow itself the highway is eight lanes again for about fifteen miles. It snakes on the most circuitous route through town, with dozens of exits for a town that's smaller than Mason City. I really didn't see much of Barstow this morning (mostly suburban strips and outlet malls), but I certainly felt like I spent plenty of time there. I'd imagine the place looked nothing whatsoever like this when my parents and Margaret lived here in the '50s, and I tried to imagine just what it did look at back then.
Today Barstow is the last bastion of civilization before you hit the "real" desert (both Barstow and the Victor Valley get water from the Mojave River, though Victorville must also pipe in water from the Colorado to support its burgeoning population). It's over 150 miles from here to Las Vegas, with only one incorporated town in between. It can be twenty miles between exits here, and most of the exits essentially go to nowhere (like "Zzyzx Road"-what's that supposed to mean, anyhow?)
That one incorporated town is Baker, which might better be known as "Midway", for it is almost literally midway between Barstow and Vegas. Only about 700 people live in Baker, but it is a major service center for the millions who drive this interstate each year. Baker has so many convenience stores and fast food outlets, it seems as if every single person here must own one.
I stopped at a place guidebooks describe as a Baker institution, the Bun Boy restaurant. This is basically a locally-owned imitation of Perkins or Country Kitchen. It's been around since the '50s (though I'd guess the current building dates to the '70s), and they serve good food at not outrageous prices. I had a thick slice of real ham and nicely cooked eggs, together with coffee, fresh-squeezed grapefruit juice, sourdough toast with Knotts Berry Farm jam, and about ten pounds of hash browns (literally filling a separate round plate).
Baker's rather dubious claim to fame is that it is home of the world's largest thermometer. The thermometer is located right beside the Bun Boy, and it stands 134 feet tall. That height was supposedly chosen to represent the highest temperature ever recorded in America, which occurred about 100 miles north of here at Furnace Creek. (Baker calls itself the gateway to Death Valley, though both the national park and the natural feature of that name are really quite a ways away.) The thermometer was broken when I saw it, so I must say I was less than impressed.
After breakfast I pulled into one of the convenience stores for gas. I still had about half a tank, but in an unfamiliar car in the middle of the desert, I figured there was no reason to take chances. It took me quite a while to figure out how to open the gas tank door. There was no driver's manual in the glove box, so I scoured every knob and lever I could find until finally I spotted a little release mechanism on the floor by the driver's seat. Once in my life I'd driven a car like that before (a sports car that belonged to the son of my friend Sandra, who then lived in Florida), so it wasn't too much of a surprise. That's the sort of thing you'd think the rental company might point out, though.
The pump price was $2.299 per gallon. I'm not sure if that's the most I've ever paid or not. If I ever did pay more, it was in Canada, where they price things by the liter so it sounds cheaper. I thought back to the horrible prices we saw in Europe last year and re-assured myself that this was still a cheap gas price by world standards. What's more, even $2.29 was 40˘ cheaper than the more remote places in the area. I was definitely glad, though, that I was buying only half a tank of gas at that price.
I continued north for about twenty more miles past Baker. I can't say for sure how far it was, because the idiots who run the California transportation department don't see fit to number their exits or even put mileage markers beside the highway. It's as if distance is meaningless to them. Instead they've spent millions installing emergency call boxes every half mile along the interstate. That seems a bit redundant in the cell phone age (my phone had a full-strength signal even in the most remote parts of the desert), and even in the "olden days" I can't imagine it was a particularly wise use of state money. At any rate, the exit I took had no number, but simply said "Cima Road" and was out in the middle of the desert in eastern California.
I crossed a cattle guard and turned right onto Cima Road, the main route through the Mojave National Preserve. Run by the Department of the Interior, Mojave Preserve is basically an undeveloped national park. There's no visitors center or gift shop, but then there's also no admission charge. The are a couple of primitive campgrounds here, as well as a network of paved and dirt roads and numerous trails.
I was hoping that the desert in April would be pleasant and interesting, and I was definitely not disappointed. From the interstate things were not as ugly as other deserts I've been to--surprisingly green--but honestly you don't see much whizzing by at 70+ mph.. When I turned off and slowed down even a little, it looked really pretty, and when I went out hiking in the middle of things, the Mojave in springtime was spectacularly beautiful. Whenever I've been to the desert, any desert before, it has always been a dried-up place of death. This was the one of the wettest springs on record, though, and the Mojave was literally blooming with new life. It's hard to describe, but the entire land was carpeted in wildflowers-pastel yellows, orange, and blue blossoms peeking up from the bright red land. The scraggly Joshua trees were also in bloom, with huge white flowers the size of their trunks, and even the cactus and yucca chaparral seemed greener and brighter than usual. I'm not sure I've ever been aware that there was so much vegetation in the desert, probably because I've always been there in summer. In the summer those wildflowers shrivel to nothing and the chaparral dries to tumbleweed. In the sweltering summer heat you barely notice the plants that manage to survive past the springtime rains. Today, though, there was gorgeous vegetation everywhere. It was cool (about 55 degrees) with just a light breeze, and the air felt moist rather than dry. There was no one else on the trail, and I had a truly glorious hike..
After hiking for about an hour I drove on down the road to the town of Cima, which is barely more than a post office and a couple of mobile homes. I then continued down to Kelso, where an old Mission-style railroad depot is being restored. It was a lovely drive, and again gave me ever-changing views around every bend. Toward the north there are black volcanic mountains, then red bluffs, and to the south tan-colored sand dunes. It was definitely drier the further south, but there were still wildflowers everywhere. It was a wonderful drive, and it definitely changed my opinion of the desert.
East of here are some lovely bare mountains. They called the New York Mountains, supposedly because their tall jagged shapes resemble the skyline of that great city-and they do, to some extent. I find the story a little hard to believe, though. Pretty much everything in this area was explored and mapped by the middle of the 1800s, long before there was much of a skyline in New York City. My bet is that some explorer hailed from the Empire State and named the mountains when thoughts of home went through his head.
Mojave National Preserve is roughly bounded Interstate 15, Interstate 40, and the state of Nevada. I followed Cima Road south to I-40 and then turned back west toward Barstow. I-40 was much more pleasant to travel than I-15. It was still busy, but traffic was manageable and there was no construction. It was also interesting that while virtually every car on I-15 had a California plate, nearly half the traffic on I-40 was from out of state. That's probably because I-40 really doesn't go anywhere other than "away". It starts at Barstow, but there's really nothing of any significant size until you get to Albuquerque-two states away. It is a big route for truckers and tourists, though, since it leads to Los Angeles from points east all the way to North Carolina.
I stopped for lunch in Barstow at another place I had read about ahead of time, Tommy's. This fast food chain has apparently been an institution in the Los Angeles area for nearly 75 years. Their original location still exists in a questionable neighborhood east of Hollywood, but they have since grown to nearly 100 restaurants, with this one being the most distant. I'm sure this location in an outlet mall in Barstow bears very little relation to the shack (literally) that housed the first one, but presumably they serve the same food. I'd read numerous favorable reviews of Tommy's, so I decided to check the place out.
My own review: Tommy's is way overrated. I was definitely less than impressed with the place. First it was dirty-not in the sense of a sanitation problem, but just that no one had bothered to pick the place up. Second, it seemed to take forever to get my food. Third, and by far the most important, I didn't care for the food. Tommy's specializes in chiliburgers, cheeseburgers covered with a slather of chili and bean puree. The cheeseburger itself might have been good (it was the standard California burger with more vegetables than meat), but the chili smear made it disgusting. If they'd used actual chili-the kind of thing you get on a chilidog-it might have been edible. That would have had texture from the beans and the meat. This was nothing other than smooth and greasy. It had the flavor of chili powder, and I honestly would have preferred a stronger spice. The fries were covered with a generous scoop of that same chili puree (what they have against texture, I don't know). I've had chili fries in other places that were good, but these just hovered between greasy and slimy. I couldn't finish it. The best part of the meal was a chocolate shake, which was the standard fast food fake dairy product. Believe me, when I go back to California, Tommy's won't be on the list of places I must re-visit.
I fought the traffic back to Palmdale Road in Victorville and headed back up 395 to the convenience store next to Mavericks Stadium. It was an Ultramar gas station, a brand that before I've only seen in Quebec. Apparently the Canadian company merged with the Texas-based company that sold gas all over the southwest under the Diamond Shamrock label. They're American owned now, but they've converted their stations to the Ultramar name. Ultramar owns a refinery in Long Beach, and they're one of only four gas companies with any significant presence in California. The others are Chevron (which dominates the market, with probably two-thirds of all stations), Mobil, and (way behind the others) Shell. Apparently Union 76 also operates here, but I'm not sure I saw any of their stations. While the oil companies will tell you stories about how air pollution regulations are the reason for California's high gas prices, if you ask me it's that lack of competition. ... There are no non-major gas stations in California, though, and I think that's why prices are so high.
I returned to the Days Inn and was again the only customer there. Some children from the public housing complex were playing in the motel parking lot, and when the maid saw me pull up she tried to shoo the kids away. She spoke only English, though, and if the kids understood English, they pretended not to. They were really being no problem, though. They had played there the previous day, too, and they carefully avoided the cars. They avoided my rent-a-Lancer today too, as they ignored the maid and went on with their game.
Today's Mavericks game was an afternoon affair, a 3:05 start. Shortly after 2:00 I made my way back to the stadium and picked up another free ticket from "will call". I sat in precisely the same seat I had yesterday, in Section 107 right behind the third base dugout. There were two old ladies who sat in the first row of Section 109, just across the aisle from me. They had greeted me yesterday, but today they all but adopted me. I as obviously someone who didn't belong in the regular crowd, and they asked where I was from and why I was there. (Adelanto just isn't a place that gets a lot of tourists, and neither is Victorville for that matter.) I explained that I was from Iowa and that I had taught Brad in high school. They commented on what a nice young man he was (which is absolutely the truth, although I'd probably have to be 30 years older to get away with using those exact words), and they felt sorry that his wrist was hurt. I don't think they or anyone in the general public knew just how serious the injury was at that point, and I didn't feel it was my place to fill them in. We chatted for some time, though, and every time something of interest happened during the game they would look my way and solicit a reaction.
Everything about the game today was better than yesterday. First and foremost, it was warmer. The high today was around 60 degrees, which is hardly a sauna, but at least was comfortable with a jacket. The annoying girls from Lancaster were back, but they were a bit more laid back today. It was a fun game, too. Both the pitching and the hitting were good on both sides, and there were a couple of really spectacular plays in the field. The Mavericks ended up winning by four runs, and it all came together for a pleasant afternoon.
Today was coffee mug day at friendly Mavericks Stadium. The first thousand fans (which pretty much meant everybody) received a free mug, courtesy of the oil recycling center. When I saw that before I went, I was picturing a cheap plastic travel mug. What we got instead were nice stoneware mugs. It's my one and only Mavericks souvenir, but I'll definitely use and enjoy it.
There were a few more fans today, although the crowd still looked suspiciously like that at Pohlman Field in Beloit (that is, more empty seats than filled ones). The official attendance announced both yesterday and today was just over 1,000. That it was the basically the same number both days when there were probably twice as many people here today is a dead giveaway that what they're really announcing is their season ticket base-plus the few walk-up tickets they sold each day. The park seats just over 3,000 (which is small, even by minor league standards), and Brad tells me that on summer weekends it is full. In April, though, it was empty. I'd guess that today there were around 700 fans in the stadium.
You get another taste of just where you are at the end of every Mavericks game. After the last out and the re-cap of the score, they play "Happy Trails to You" over the P.A. system. Until recently one of the few tourist attractions in the area was the Roy Rogers Museum in Victorville. I read a description of it in an off-beat guidebook that suggested Mr. Rogers (or perhaps Miss Evans) must have had a taxidermy fetish. Apparently the place was filled with all the various stuffed creatures Roy killed while hunting all over the globe. There were also shrines to the couple's children, who all died young in an assortment of bizarre ways. The guidebook didn't outright say it, but they left the impression they were half expecting to see the kids stuffed there along with all the animals. Unfortunately the museum has closed up in Victorville and headed east to the ultimate center of kitsch, Branson, Missouri. That meant that the closest I would get to Roy Rogers was hearing him croon at the end of the game.
After the game I again waited out in the parking lot. It was fun to watch all the people who hung around the entrance after the game. There were a few young ladies who appeared to be the "baseball Annies" you hear about who want nothing more than to hook up with a ballplayer. There were real girlfriends and wives of some of the players, a few relatives (the starting pitcher's parents had come from Texas and were sitting a few rows behind me today), and lots and lots of autograph seekers. When he came out it was very clear that even though he was injured, there was still a demand for Brad's autograph. It also impressed me that he was able to sign with a cast.
Brad suggested we go out for dinner. ... [We went to] Marie Callender's, which is a California chain that comes across as Perkins with pretensions. In my book it's overpriced ($15 - $20 a plate), but it's not a bad restaurant. They basically serve homestyle "comfort" food, the sort of thing that just oozes fat but tastes good. Brad had pot roast with mashed potatoes, and I had lasagna and French onion soup. An almost too efficient waiter constantly refilled our drinks, and the portions were sufficient that there literally wasn't any room for dessert.
If you think of dinner as renting a table, we definitely got our money's worth. We stayed and talked and talked and talked some more. The service was prompt, but we ended up staying in that restaurant over three hours. ... I think I was in college the last time I had such an extensive conversation with someone who wasn't immediate family. Brad, of course, would be in college if he hadn't been thrust into adulthood by the MLB draft. There's probably something about that age that helps with conversation, a curiosity that older adults have lost and a lack of the cynicism that comes with age. ...
In the course of the evening I learned all about what it's like to be a professional ballplayer. I won't bore you or embarrass Brad by sharing all the details. Suffice to say it's really not that glamorous and it's often rather lonely, but it's can also be both fun and rewarding. Brad lives in a very different world than I do, and I really have no desire to join him there. It was fun to find out what things were like, though.
* * * * *
We went back to the motel and said a rather lengthy goodbye. I would be in Adelanto one more day, but it seemed pretty pointless to both of us for me to go to the park again tomorrow. I wished Brad well with the surgery, a quick recovery, and a good season after that. I certainly hope all three of those wishes come true.
There were exactly three cars in the parking lot of the Days Inn tonight. It made me wonder how long it would be before this motel joined the two others that were already boarded up. I settled into my room, watched a bit of TV, and then pretty quickly went to sleep.
The background music on this page is Roy Rogers' "Happy Trails".