Membership
Riders Preferred Membership
Shop by Vehicle
Track Order
Contact Us
It was around 3:30 in the afternoon when I was turned around by State Police at the Cima store in a middle of nowhere in the Southern California desert. There was a fatality up the road. A fellow motorcyclist pushed a turn too hard and went down for the last time.
That's something you never want to hear, especially when you're embarking on a four-day, two-lane-highway moto-camping adventure across the less populated areas of the state.
Continuing on, the roads were clear, the moon and stars lit my surroundings almost as well as my headlight and outside of passing some BLM campers in their motorhomes, only the rustle of the wind along my helmet kept me company. No warm smell of colitas, no shimmering light in the distance, but a dark desert highway all the same. That's when the call came in.
"Hey, where are you?" she asked.
"Just outside of Amboy."
"Are you riding right now?"
"Yup, on the way to Joshua Tree for the night."
"Well, it's dark out, be careful. Don't hit anything."
"Sure thing, love!"
"Call me when you get there so I know you're safe."
"It's a dead zone…"
"Just call and let me know when you've arrived safely."
"I can't, it's a dead zone, but OK."
When it comes to riding, I think everyone has their list to check off. Some look forward to getting good enough at track days to actually race, some want to take Backroad Discovery Routes across the wilds on some knobby tires and a big adventure bike, others aim for the gnarliest single-track their dirt bike can handle. For me, it's two lanes, less traveled blacktop, and the promise of somewhere unique to post up for the night, only to continue forward the next day with a hot coffee and the sun to break through the rust on my joints from the previous long day in the saddle.
I'm a firm believer in the power of a soundtrack for road trips. Growing up in the era of taping songs from the radio to while away time in the back of the van during summer trips with my father, later on burning CDs in college for out-of-state adventures with friends, the right music is essential to a memorable journey.
Nowadays, while we can build playlists in our streaming services to pump music through our Bluetooth speakers, we often rely on algorithms that don’t always hit the same moods that you want to vibe with. I found myself saying "next track" a little more often than preferred. I can only listen to MGMT's "Electric Feel" so many times in a week, and The Pixies were next on the playlist. The 45 mm speaker drivers pumping "Where is My Mind?" definitely set the stage for a four-day solo moto-camping jaunt through some of the more remote and wild areas of Southern California.
I arrived at Joshua Tree around 9 p.m. and set up camp with the moon illuminating my tasks of setting up my little backpacker's tent and heating a can of stew on my tiny hiker stove. With food in my belly, I hiked up to a high point of the neighboring boulders to watch the stars, enjoy the cool desert air of November and a frosty beverage before bedding down for the night.
The strangeness of the Salton Sea and Slab City
After a simple breakfast of black coffee and an everything bagel with peanut butter and banana, I stopped at the Joshua Tree Cottonwood Visitor Center for a quick look at a physical map of the surrounding area and then headed to the southern entrance to the park, where the cell signal was restored. I pulled over for a quick photo with the sign, which took about half an hour as I ran through a series of worried voicemails and texts from my significant other and returned her calls to confirm that I was indeed OK.
From there it was on to the Salton Sea. Created as the result of a burst irrigation dike in the early 1900s, it had a brief flash of brilliance as the "Riviera of America" in the 1950s and '60s, before fading into beautiful ruin. Formed by human error and destined to fail with no continuous natural replenishment of the body of water, it has grown saltier by the decade due to evaporation until the only remaining inhabitants are a couple hundred hardy people and scores of tilapia. Even most of the gulls and pelicans eventually succumb to the heat and salt, which will desiccate and preserve them for future discovery.
If you are feeling hardy yourself, there is a state park with camping along the shore. It's typically quiet, and carries the stench of decay that blows in and out with the wind. At night you can hear the coyotes howling in the nearby hills.
My next stop, and my main destination for the trip, was Slab City, with everything else built around it. Slab City is a sprawling community of squatters, artists, snowbirds, and wanderers. I had visited before on a day trip a decade prior but had never camped overnight. Despite a surprisingly strong cell signal, the place has a very borderlands, post-apocalyptic vibe. There are established camps, with makeshift walls to mark their borders. Most people haul in their water by truck in 330-gallon tanks and use solar power, which is especially effective in the deserts of inland Southern California, to run lights and electricity.
For every well maintained camp, there are another dozen that are slapped together with detritus from local junkyards and construction sites. Converted school buses and burned down RVs are abundant. However, the layout of Slab City has the familiar grid pattern of most modern cities.
I set my bags down in Mojo's Slab Camp and introduced myself to Mojo and fellow campers who congregated around the outdoor kitchen table. It was an eclectic group. Dirty Dave, a former biker in his 70s who enjoys his freedom and warm weather. Jiffy Pop, a former construction worker in his 30s who decided he wasn't happy, quit his job, sold his house and began vagabonding around the country, making YouTube videos on his travels for a modest income. Bob, the retired Marine who got divorced five years prior, took what remained from the settlement and custom-fitted an old school bus for off-grid travel.
The majority of the night was spent bouncing between two additional camps. The first one was California Ponderosa, run by a man named Spyder. It was a chilly night and there were open-mic performances and cold beer available for a modest sum. Children ran around and played tag while adults congregated at the bar area to listen to the live music or outside by the roaring fire pit. It had a familial vibe that wouldn't be out of place in a group campsite or rented family beach house, just a bit more raw.
From there it was a short walk over to the RedRum Room. A makeshift bar enclosed around an old tree. True to its name, it glowed red from a long distance away with psychedelic music blasting into the night air. The interior was a slap-dash assortment of a raised bar area, beat up and derelict sofas and graffiti murals surrounded by a stage and a go-go dancer cage. In the far corner was an even more elaborate couch setup around a dirty and lifted recliner that functioned as a makeshift throne for the RedRum Room's resident pirate king.
Most of the locals at the various camps were free to share their stories but reluctant to share their names, and even less inclined to having their photos taken. When you're a visitor, you respect the locals and their wishes. Among those who aren't retired, aren't pursuing art, and don't run their own camp, a theme emerges. These are people who feel like society has left them behind. Most will say they are between jobs, between families, or that they are willing to work, but not for less than they feel they are worth. I got the feeling that some tend to trip over their own feet when seeking opportunity.
As the night wound down, I returned to Mojo's Camp. She offered a portable hammock so I wouldn't have to sleep on the ground. I accepted and drifted to sleep in my bag under the stars and moon.
Headed for the coast and flipping the bird
The rising sun woke me just after 6 a.m. and I snapped a quick photo from the hammock before getting up and packing for the next leg of the trip. It was going to be the highest mileage part of the ride and the one I was most looking forward to, as it contained several long stretches of twisty mountain roads as it wound towards the coast.
Much like camping in the Slabs fulfilled a long-desired bucket list item, the third day was all about the ride. It was going to be a long, twisty adventure making my way out to the California coastline by way of some adventurous mountain passes. First, though, I had to get there and that meant another 70-plus miles of going around the southern end of the Salton Sea and through the town of Borrego Springs. Coming into the town led me across the Texas Dip, a mile long drop and rise that evoked the start of a roller coaster. From there, large rusted metal sculptures of animals began lining the desert roadside. Borrego Springs is on the list of "dark sky" places in California, meaning it is protected from urban lights and provides some amazing stargazing opportunities.
The true twisties began with Montezuma Valley Road, which is part of the S-22 that connects Borrego Springs to San Felipe Road (S-2) while taking you past the small town of Ranchita and one of the Pacific Crest Trailheads. There was a wonderful overlook at the top of the pass before I descended the mountain and made an afternoon push to the coast along Highway 76. If I had an additional day, I might have detoured at Lake Henshaw and taken the S7 E Grade road, but exhaustion from three days of heavy riding and sleeping in a bag meant the safer option was to just continue along the highway until I was closer to my destination. Besides, it's not like Highway 76 doesn’t have plenty of curves itself. They are just less technical and the wider roads let you open the throttle and have some more relaxed fun.
As I came down from the mountains and entered more populated areas, I was making great time. Fully expecting to make camp overlooking the ocean at around 3 p.m., I felt everything was truly coming together on the back half of the journey. Except for the bird. The bird may be the word, but in this tale, the hawk squawks last.
Let me mention that I was wearing my Riding Culture Straight Fit Jeans, which work great for my fairly thick thighs and waist. The stitching is strong and the single-layer denim handled a wide temperature range on my trip. I mention this because at 65 mph, while hauling down the San Luis Rey Mission Expressway, minding my own business, an overly eager hawk with exceptionally poor timing decided to swoop into my path for the kill. I felt a thud on my shin as I hit the hawk and its prey with an explosion of feathers. In my mirror, I saw the hawk bounce into the concrete divider. If it lived, I don't think it was for long.
As I continued along, a nearby motorist waved at me. At first, I thought it was just from witnessing the collision, but then they pointed down. I glanced at my feet to see the roadkill (most likely a dove or large pigeon) pressed up against my header, baking itself to my bike. When I was able to pull over at a gas station and properly check everything out, that's when I understood the quality of the denim. My lower leg looked straight out of a horror film. Blood, flesh, possibly bits of organs were attached to my leg and the bike. While my bike cooled, I made ample use of the windshield scrubber to clean myself up as well as I could before turning my focus to the bike.
I approached the campsite at dusk, with roughly an hour to unload my gear and set up my tent. Once everything was in place, I took the opportunity to change out of my riding jeans to give them a proper look over. Barring the dark stain at the impact point, there was no signs of damage to the material, and even better, none of the impact transferred through the included knee and shin armor to my leg.
I took a short walk to the showers, threw in some quarters to get the water running, and cleaned up for the first time in days. I can't say precisely how good it feels to wash off several days worth of road dust, bugs, sweat, and bird, but it was nice. Afterwards, I walked across the highway overpass to a local Irish pub, settled on a Guinness and shepherd's pie for dinner, then went back to crash in the tent. The road home was going to be a long, straight shot of interstate and boring compared to the trip out, but, as with any multi-day journey, I looked forward to seeing my family and sleeping in a real bed.
There is a lot of history and culture to be found on road trips in America. Exposure and riding go hand in hand. Giving up some of the convenience, such as packing the tent and skipping the hotel rooms, is one way to embrace the challenges along the way and is part of the adventure.
