Yuma, Arizona to Slab City, California (14,536 - 14,636 miles)

I never expected to winter in Slab City two years in a row, and I cycle past Salvation Mountain looking for changes. Asians swarm over the monument, snapping photos and dropping donations into a locked box. Salvation Mountain isn't a mountain by any sense of the word—the sandy hill isn't much higher than a four-story building—but the tourists don't seem to mind. Visiting movie locations shot in the US are high on their bucket lists, and Slab City and Salvation Mountain had a role in Into the Wild, a story about an adventurous young man who eventually dies in Alaska.
I cycle into the abandoned military base, now a California land trust, roll past an eclectic mix of inhabitants. Population increases exponentially during the winter and most of the concrete slabs are occupied. The visitors arrive in RVs, travel trailers, vans, buses, cars and trucks, on bikes, many on foot. Some are rich, most live in poverty, and it's not uncommon to see a tent pitched close to a quarter-million dollar rig. Not too close, though. The Slabs has two major rules. One, don't mistreat dogs. Two, respect privacy. Whoever violates these rules will be burned out. That's just the way it is in the desert. People handle their own business and you'd best not overstep your bounds if you want a peaceful existence.
I turn onto a cracked asphalt road, feel the tires jar when they bump over the ruts, stop and talk to a guy I met last year. He's a Slabber, an honorary title bestowed on someone who survives two summers in a row. I ask about Sherry Rose, the insane woman who was the first to welcome me last year, discover she's long gone.
“They come and they leave,” D______ says.
“Cuervo?”
Cuervo, a longtime Slabber, now lives south of the border with a Mexican prostitute. He's sixty-seven and she's in her late teens, and I'll never forget his leer when he told me about her last year. “I'm her guy,” he'd claimed, which meant whenever he was in town she quit sleeping with random customers and moved in with him. I never expected him to sell his mules and give up his adobe/straw hut for this girl, wonder aloud how much dementia played a role. (Cuervo gets a “nut check from the government,” his words.)
D_______ shrugs. “The man doesn't have many more years. He's happy.”
Happiness.
Isn't that what we all want?

Sunset

Desert Moon###
I had planned on tenting outside Andrew's trailer, soon discover the long-haired Welshman moved to parts unknown. Rumor has it he lives under a tree, although no one is sure of the location. Or maybe they are and I can't find it. The result is the same. I'm on my own, and people on their own in Slab City live an uneasy lifestyle. Methheads roam once the sun sets, headlamps bobbing eerily in the darkness, and I worry about one of these mush-brains stumbling upon my camp. For most of last winter I changed location every day, setting up at night, slept with my bike and gear inside my Hubba Hubba. I might have to do the same this year. If so, I'm not looking forward to it. I thread my knife sheath through my belt, buckle my belt around my waist. Last year I wore grizzly pepper spray as a deterrent, and this year I have a knife. I hope I never have to use it.
I continue my cruise, appalled as always by the garbage strewn about, watch a woman in a wrap around dress hold an animated conversation with a sun-baked tire. She kicks it, then sits on it, mutters to herself. I munch a candy bar and drink water, cycle into the cooling afternoon.
On a whim, I stop at a compound on Cochella Canal Road, talk to the woman who owns the place. A breeze blows her hair across her cheeks and she tucks it under a ball cap, gazes at me with intelligent eyes. She's wearing shorts and a t-shirt; her skin is golden brown. Barefoot and holding a coffee mug, she gives me precise directions to Andrew's tree.
“Or,” she says, “you can pitch here.”
Mojo's Camp is roughly a hundred-yard circle of cleared desert. Her trailer sits close to the center of the circle, and a diverse collection of RVs and trailers parallel the perimeter. She provides water, a toilet with working plumbing, has a solar system I can use to charge my electronics. She doesn't tolerate drama, which sounds perfect for a writer intent on getting back to a novel.
“Under that tree,” Mojo says. “That way you'll have shade.”


Bubba, Irma, Dave, and Little Bit

Bubba, Oz, Mr. Patters, and Dave thinking about barbecue

Gypsy, camp dog
Imperial County utilities don't extend this far into the desert, and the offer of water and electricity is more than a little attractive. So is living in a community. There is strength in numbers and I'll feel a lot safer than scrounging around on my lonesome. I pitch my tent and over the next few months get to know my neighbors. They are friendly people and most of them own dogs, which makes living here even more fun. I spend time with Mojo and soon realize a larger purpose drives her life. She thrives on helping people, which I suppose is the reason she invited me into her camp. The woman possesses an inexhaustible energy and I've never seen her say no to someone. She gives rides to the store and the hospital, provides a pantry for those in need, plans on creating a first aid station and training Slabbers to assist in medical emergencies. One day, I go with her in her truck to check on a tweaker.
He's an old man, shriveling under the drug, wears jeans and a cowboy hat, both of which have seen better days. She fills his water jugs and gives him a long hug. I feel like I'm in the presence of something otherworldly and stay quiet when she returns to the truck. I don't have unconditional love for someone who abuses drugs—especially meth—and I won't lose a wink of sleep if the coroner comes out tomorrow and removes the guy in a body bag. He chose his life; let him deal with the consequences. Unlike Mojo, I can't see past his actions, can't love him for simply being human.
“Why?” I say.
She tells about her life as a successful business owner, giving it up and coming to the Slabs. She doesn't add that she came to work in service of others, and I suspect she's too humble to speak of herself in that way.
“I'm happy,” she says.
That word again.
She drives back to camp and lets me off, goes to help someone else in need. She has evolved beyond me, perhaps beyond anyone I've met.


Mojo filling Slab swimming pool
###
This winter is much drier than last year, the temps mild, and I spend my time playing horseshoes and eating salty snacks. I also eat chicken—devouring thighs and drumsticks—drowning them in whatever hot sauce is at hand. January rolls into February and February rolls into March. I buy new tires and put them on my bike, oil the cables and chain, replace the brake pads. The temps hit 100 degrees and I decide it's time to go. I'm ready to see what's around the corner, ready for mountains and a cooler environment.
The evening before I leave Al asks for a ride. Mojo is back in Fresno for a bit—taking care of her ill father—and she's given me the keys to the camp. Which means I can drive the camp truck or camp car to town.
“Sure,” I say, walking toward the truck. “Hop in.”
Al has been in camp for a couple of weeks, arriving on foot, and we've only talked a couple of times. When we did, he seemed like a nice enough guy. He stays away from hard drugs, saw them destroy the adults in his childhood, has a quiet demeanor. I didn't pry during our conversations, don't know where he's from and what brought him to Slab City.
I get behind the wheel and he slides into the passenger seat. If I had to pin down his age, I'd put him in his low thirties, although I wouldn't want to wager on it. He's wearing jeans and a t-shirt, has a lean wiry body that seems at ease with itself. I'm pleased to spend time with him, wait to see if he opens up on the way to town.
I drive past Salvation Mountain, past the hot spring and then the old guard shack, feel increasingly anxious the more miles I put between us and Mojo's Camp. Something is telling me to turn this truck around, and that something is telling me to do it right friggin' now. I glance at Al, still trying to place the source of my nervousness.
“What do you need in town?” I say.
He wants to buy potting soil.
“Where?” I say.
He has no idea.
I pull to the side of the road, a mile outside the town of Niland, tell him my gut is telling me to turn the truck around. He looks at me for a long time, speaks in a soft voice.
“You should go with your gut,” he says.
I take him back to camp and leave early the next morning, intent on seeing the eastern side of the High Sierra. I've put on thirty-five pounds, and I've developed a breathing issue that worries me. I've had it before, always when I get over 230 pounds, hope it goes away when my weight drops and my fitness level rises. A blimp on wheels, I struggle to pedal against a headwind, stop every so often to rest and drink water.
Am I happy?
I'm too angry with myself to consider the question, should have exercised restraint when putting food in my mouth. I remember Mojo throwing her arms around a tweaker I wouldn't give the time of day, think I could use one of her hugs right about now. I cycle onward, breathing too hard for the energy expended, resolve to become a better person.
I doubt it will happen.
###
Two days later I go to Facebook and read about a development in the Slabs. Law enforcement agencies are sweeping the desert for a man wanted in connection for a murder back east. Swat teams invade camps and helicopters hover overhead, keeping the pressure on until they get their man.
It's Al, the campmate who wanted a ride to the store.
I'm so stunned it takes awhile for the story to sink in. . . . My first clear thought is the guy had me fooled.
Another thought comes, one so startling I stop pedaling and coast off the road. Had he sensed authorities closing in on him—is that why he asked for a ride to the store? The man was young enough and strong enough to overpower me and steal the truck—was that his intent?
That feeling I had, the one telling me to turn around, suddenly makes sense. I don't want to think about what might have happened if I hadn't acted on my intuition, doubt I would be making this post, or any other for that matter.
Sometime within the next few days I read a Newport, Virginia article about the manhunt, become even more convinced I made a narrow escape. I cycle north, leaving the Slabs behind, try not to think about what might have happened.