Quick Run in the California Desert
I got it in my head this spring that I wanted to go for a run in the desert. Ninety minutes in the car, and I could have a huge number of trails to choose from across wild terrain. But a quick look at the forecast and I realized that, even in May, it was already too hot out there. Unless...
San Diego County begins at the ocean's edge, ripples east over canyons and foothills, dips into the flat heat trap of East County and then rises fast into the conifer forests of the mountains. Keep going down the far side of mountains and you will meet the massive Anza-Borrego Desert, where San Diego County yields to the furious temperatures and bizarre moonscape of Imperial County. Growing up in East County, I could reliably feel better about 100-degree summer days by looking at the temps east of me in Borrego Springs, easily 10-20 degrees hotter than our air conditioned suburb.
But by May, the daytime temps in Anza-Borrego were already hitting triple digits. To pull off a run out there, I'd need to hit the trail at dawn when the temperature would be hovering in the reasonable 80s, before launching its full assault on the day.
And so, camping!
I threw together equipment and a few gallons of water, and the hit the road mid-afternoon on a sunny day in the first week of May. The Anza-Borrego State Park visitors center told me when I pulled in around 5 p.m. that it was 105 degrees; the volunteers there told me little else. (Seriously, they were least helpful state park volunteers I've encountered, expressing surprise and doubt that anyone would want to visit there.)
Excellent state park facilities! Each site has its own shade pagoda.
I drove out to Tamarisk Grove Campground and discovered it was... empty. Finding the ranger station closed, I drove the loops of vacant campsites and wondered if I could brave staying here alone till I found a family of four happily camped in the center of the park. Their easy vibe was all the reassurance I needed, and I quickly pitched my tent, lit up the camp stove and studied the trail maps in the setting sun.
The trail I wanted to try is in the southeast corner of the park in an area called Fish Creek Wash. An ancient sea covered this arid, bleached landscape and when it receded, the water left a fossil record of what once was. Fish Creek (note: no creek exists here) runs through a geographic feature called Split Mountain, and that was my target for an out-and-back run that I could shorten or lengthen depending on the heat of the air, and the speed of my legs.
I was up before dawn, broke down my simple campsite by the light of a headlamp and scarfed a banana as I drove further east toward Split Mountain. The trailhead directions didn't exactly match the terrain, and after driving my tiny city-suitable car off-road roughly toward the trailhead, I decided to park and start running for fear of my tires getting stuck in the loose sand that covered the hardpack surface.
The sun rose fast and before I knew it, I was running in the full light of the morning on a wide, side-winding track tucked into awesome rock formations. Walls of rock created stretches of shade and plenty to gawk at as I followed the S-curves of a long-lost river bed. The footing was kind of terrible though (I had dismissed a note in a trail guide that recommended only running here after a winter rain, when the loose sand would firm up into a runnable surface) and it made the run a harder effort than I expected.
But so worth it!! The rock walls were fascinating: striated layers of sediment leaned and tilted in wild directions; some layers were solid, rust-colored rock and other layers were a jumbled mess of gravel and stones. Wind, water and time had scooped out pockets of rock from the walls, and in some places crevices opened into shallow caves. Cactus and shrub-filled islands of sand and rock pushed the trail around curves, and I was constantly getting a new view of the surrounding landscape. Openings between the rocky hills allowed in big gulps of blue sky. And underfoot, pebbly bleached sand formed a perfect track that left no worry about staying on trail.
I wasn't looking at my mileage or the time when I decided to head back. The air was hot, but I had plenty of water in my race vest. What triggered my turn-around was a sudden, inexplicable change in my own mood. I had been cruising on the joy of having decided to do something inconvenient and undesirable to some people; I was full of appreciation for the solitude of the desert and simplicity of the elements.
Gah, snake!
And then for no reason I could discern, my thoughts became crowded: how far out from the main road was I; how hard would it be to reach help if I needed it; why hadn't I stuffed a first aid kit in my vest; and exactly how many rattlesnakes and scorpions could be lurking in the crevices of the rock walls surrounding me? Everyone tells you not to go adventuring alone.
I paused long enough to anesthetize these doubts: I took in the gorgeous terrain that surrounded me, had a logical chat with myself to recognize that I was, in that moment, totally safe and healthy, and then I turned and beat it back toward my car.
In Travels With Charley: In Search Of America, John Steinbeck writes about the formidable desert just north of here: "The Mojave is a big desert and a frightening one. It’s as though nature tested a man for endurance and constancy to prove whether he was good enough to get to California." The bragging, nativist Californian in me has always loved those lines, and I appreciate them a bit more sincerely now.
So much movement and history in these rocks!
[May 6-7, 2018: Anza Borrego State Park, California]
