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Our plan today is to explore parts of the shoreline along the Salton Sea, drive through the Borrego Desert and spend the night in Rancho Bernardo where my fathers sister resides. We drive along the north end of the Salton Sea, stopping now and again to admire the nothingness along the shoreline. There are abandoned liquor stores, restaurants and trailer parks, derelict and sad along this part of the shoreline. The morning is hot and dry and real estate signs announce foreclosures and houses for sale for as little as $35,000. We find a few small towns that are still surviving; one with a high school, a grocery store and a bait shop. Small, inexpensive houses dot the colorless landscape. Beach front property is readily available along the salt rimmed beach flats of “Desert Shores.”

We turn westward and follow Hwy 22 upward towards Borrego Springs. My father explains the geology of the area as we drive along the ridge road above sculpted canyons with distinct bedding. The various rust and sand colored layers of uplifted bedding are beautiful but it is nearly noon and with the sun directly overhead these dramatic hills do not photograph well. Ocitihilla cactus flank the road, flame tipped with red blossoms against the vivid blue sky. We stop at Borrego Springs for lunch in a rather charming village cafe and once again share a B.L.T. and a pile of french fries.

Continuing westward, we drop down the other side of Borrego and connect with Hwy 78. The terrain changes from desert to pine forests as we pass through Julian, a quaint tourist town bursting with antique and gift shops and eateries. Descending further, the landscape morphs to agricultural. Everything is lush and green and we drive past horse ranches, small farms and apple orchards. I imagine that I am hallucinating when I see camels in a distant field. I make an abrupt stop along the side of the road and make a U turn. It is not my imagination; there are a dozen camels grazing in a pasture. I am delighted look up and see that the street sign is Camel Dairy Lane!

We arrive at my Aunt Helen’s retirement home by 4:30 P.M. She is 90 years old and is delighted to see us. The nurses comment on the family resemblance between brother and sister and my aunt beams happily. Helen usually eats her meals in her room, but my father and I take Helen into the main dining room to eat dinner together. We visit briefly after dinner with the promise to return in the morning.

We leave the Painted Canyon parking area, retracing our tracks back along the dirt road until we reach Box Canyon Road and turn in the direction of Indio. Our plans are to ferret out the adobe house that we lived in nearly 54 years ago.

In 1956, I lived with my parents in a tiny adobe cottage, adjoining a date orchard in Mecca, California. Mecca is just a few miles north of the Salton Sea, and light years away from Palm Spring which lies just 25 miles further north. My brief 5 or 6 month residency in Mecca made a significant impression on my life. I am an only child and my father was mapping this particular area of the San Andreas Fault. My parents enrolled me in the Mecca kindergarten. My sour, sharp featured teacher was crotchety; my classmates spoke no English, and I spoke no Spanish. Our classroom was utter chaos and I had no friends at school. Happily, the school day is short and at noon, my mother would pick me up and we would drive along the irrigation canal back to our tiny cottage. My father was in field all day and my mother would allow me to play outside of our adobe house. I was soon venturing further and further from our dusty front yard, ferreting out desert creatures and building nests in scraggly trees where I could hide away and day dream. When my father would return from the field, he often had a surprise for me. It was often a horned lizard or a snake tucked inside his lunch box. On one or two occasions he brought home a desert tortoise, and subsequently drilled a hole in the back flange of the tortoises shell so that we could tether our captive by a chain to the small tree outside of our cottage. The tortoises would plod endlessly around in a circle, wearing a deep rut in the dirt. I remember many hot and slow afternoons when I would lie on the ground feeding them iceberg lettuce. My father had many small clear plastic specimen boxes among his geological research equipment. To my mothers’ horror, I would occasionally “borrow” one of his plastic hinged boxes and lie and wait in the dirt for the unsuspecting scorpion. I could corral the sand colored scorpion under one half of the box and quickly snap it shut, thus capturing my new pet for careful inspection, both top and bottom. So….for those of you who ask: “Why inspires you to create the pieces that you do?” Much of who I am and what I create was nurtured by scientific parents in a desert landscape. Consider that dragons are not a far stretch from lizards…just add wings and stir your imagination.

I made one very special friend during this time; Maria. She was my age, 5 or 6 years old and lived in an outdoor encampment in the date orchard adjoining our simple adobe cottage. We didn’t speak the same language, but happily played together, with Jenny Dolls on the shaded and dusty front porch of our tiny cottage. On several occasions, Marias’ father would invite me to walk with him and Maria to the nearest grocery store and he would buy us popsicles. On this road trip, I found that same corner store; much changed in 54 years, but I have no doubt that it is where Maria and I ate popsicles together on scorching afternoons in 1956.

It is mid afternoon when we leave the Patton museum. We drive from Chiriaco and follow Hwy 195 along Box Canyon Road descending towards Indio. We pass the canal on the flats and turn northwest along the hills and follow the road that parallels the San Andres fault zone. Rugged hills are on our right and the saltine flats are on our left.

Memories of my childhood engulf me. I remember, as a child, driving with my mother, along the irrigation canals to go to my kindergarten in Mecca. I remember exciting camping and hiking expeditions up painted canyon where the canyon walls narrowed and I could touch both sides of the canyon with my outstretched hands. The rock walls were a glorious mixture of burnt oranges and yellow ochres, swirled together like partially mixed cake batter. At one point, the canyon was so narrow and fractured and the ascent so steep that a rickety wooden ladder was nailed to the rock face to the help hikers climb to the next level of the canyon. I remember with awe, that my father would magically repair a rotted rung of the wooden ladder, making it possible for us to continue our hiking adventure. My short, little girl legs needed help to ascend steep and narrow sections of the canyon and my parents were always behind me, giving me a push up to the next level. The adventures that I experienced in Painted Canyon have significantly influenced my life and my expectations of travel and adventure to this day.

We drive two miles up the canyon along a beautifully graded gravel road. It is late afternoon and the day is overcast, so the wonderful jumble of mountains that make up this area of the San Andres fault is not optimally lit for photographs. I recall camping here, on a Girl Scout expedition, when one of my scout mates discovered a beautiful black, hairy tarantula. To the arachnids dismay, our troupe adopted it for the weekend and it went home with one of the girls to become a family pet.

I drive my father to the end of the road. There is an expansive, well graded parking area and we sit for a few minutes to gaze further up the canyon. From this point on, one must be on foot and I watch a a small group of hikers enter the mouth of the canyon.

The cholla cactus are not yet in bloom, but fields of them stretch for miles, backlit in the desert sunlight. My father tells me a story of when he and my mother were courting. The two of them went on a picnic in the high desert and my father picked a cholla cactus bud from the desert sand and placed it in my mothers hair as an ornament. Obviously in love, she made no objection, until it came time to remove the thorny ornament. In spite of this, or perhaps because of this, she married my father and they shared 60 years together. We drive past fields of Ocotillo cactus, beautifully exotic, their long fronds tipped with red blossoms. After meandering many of the park roads, we leave Joshua Tree and have lunch at a gasoline stop in Chiriaco on the summit along interstate 10. My father and I share a bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich. He enjoys a beer and I indulge in a chocolate milkshake.

After lunch we visit the Patton Museum. In 1944, during WW2, my father served under Patton as part of the 3rd army when Patton took over the land operations in Normandy. My father signs the guest book as one of Pattons’ men. The museum is small and somewhat dark and while my father takes his time within the museum, I am transfixed by an exhibit of trench art; shell casings and rocket shells from WW2, intricately repoussed and engraved with designs that a most experienced metalsmith would be proud of. There is an outside section of the museum where tanks and DUKWs are on display. My father is delighted to see a DUKW; an amphibious vehicle that transitions between land and water. In 1944, my father maneuvered DUKWs on the west coast of Devon; just beyond the surf line to take wave measurments in preperation for the invasion of Normandy. I take photos of my father beside this remarkable machine.

After suffering through the standard motel continental breakfast of hardboiled eggs, cold cereal and bitter coffee, we drive the few miles to the entrance of Joshua Tree National Park. We retrieve maps at the visitors center and meander the park roads through fabulous jumbled granite rocks formations. It is late morning, but the light is still dramatic and golden, with contrasting shadows delineating the monumental rocks. I drive slowly and pull off frequently so that my father can enjoy the jumbled rock vistas from the comfort of the van. There are miles of trails and endless boulders and rock faces to challenge the most adventurous climber. Our morning drive together is magical.

The road we choose winds upward ending at a spectacular lookout point where we can see Palm Springs and the Salton Sea sprawled in the haze, 5,000 feet below. I park in a handicapped space and with little help, my determined father ascends the challenging pathway up to the vista. He sits at the edge of the vista, inhaling the beauty of the landscape, the San Jacinto mountains in the distance, most certainly recalling memories of earlier years, when as a professor of geology at U.C.L.A. he led field trips to this area.

Both my father and I have been looking forward to retracing the roads of our past and when we leave the cemetery to begin this three day road trip, my father happily unfolds his new crisp California map and navigates as I drive. We drive south on Hwy. 101; the morning light reflects off the haze and the horizon line between ocean and sky is indistinguishable. I am happy to be the chauffeur with no decisions to make. Just before Oxnard, I turn East on Hwy. 126. The black ribbon of road unwinds towards Fillmore and Piru eventually intersecting with Interstate 5. Heading south we pass the Magic Mountain Parkway. Two immense twisted roller coasters are starkly silhouetted against the grey sky. They look like giant erector sets, colorful and impossible mechanical contraptions. We leave the interstate and cut across through Santa Clarita catching Hwy 14 East towards Palmdale. At 65 mph, this two lane stretch of road rides like a mini roller coaster with dips and rises and my van has moments of weightlessness when the highway drops suddenly away. Our plan is to stop in Palmdale for lunch but there are only fast food restaurants along the main drag. We feel fortunate when we spy an I Hop, but the 45 minute wait on a Sunday afternoon sends us elsewhere. There is another restaurant, some distance away across the undistinguished strip mall parking lot. I set out on foot to investigate and discover that there are no customers whatsoever in this Mediterranean restaurant. This is never a good sign, but at least we won’t have to wait. The young Armenian waiter is the owners son, and we have his undivided attention. Our two shish kabob lunch platters arrive quickly, are ample, flavorful but sadly overcooked.

My father takes an after lunch cat nap as I drive on towards Victorville. This stretch of road is monotonous and I pull into a Starbucks for a coffee fix to power me on. We approach Victorville from the north, cross the Mojave River and follow the historic route 66 for a brief stint. I regret that I didn’t pull over to photograph the wrought iron Route 66 sign that spanned the historic downtown street.

Years back, my fathers parents as lived in Lucerne Valley and his sister Helen, lived in Apple Valley. As we pass through this area I ask my father if he can find Helens’ house? I remember celebrating many Christmases in this high desert and the house that Helen and her friend Martha lived in was designed by Neutra. If memory serves me correctly, the year was 1965 and I was around 14, when Martha had the house built. I remember then thinking it was unusual; all straight lines, lots of glass and a reflecting pool. It sat a couple of miles up a dirt (?) road and had an expansive view of the valley below. Although my father knows the general area, he doesn’t remember the name of the road and with so much new construction, we miss the turn off. I would have enjoyed seeing this remarkable house and rekindling memories. Several days later, we find out, it is on High Street in Apple Valley.

We arrive in 29 Palms just after 5:00 P.M and check into our motel. There is a Marine training base in close proximity to 29 Palms and the majority of the shops along the stretch of downtown, are tattoo parlors, bars and barber shops, advertising military style hair cuts. My father and I eat an unremarkable Mexican style dinner together. The booths within the brightly lit restaurant are filled with young military families, enjoying a Sunday night dinner out.

Today would be my mother’s 90^th birthday and our first stop is the Santa Barbara cemetery to wish her a happy birthday and place roses at her grave. She has both an ocean and mountain view and we sit with her quietly on this blessedly beautiful Sunday morning.

I’m on a three day road trip with my venerable father, a renowned Geologist, who has spent much of his life in the field in Southern California, mapping the San Andreas Fault and the surrounding area. At 92, my father, John C. Crowell, professor emeritus, pretends to be retired, but with Spring in the air, and a wish for us to spend time together, we arrange a road trip to Yucca Valley, Indio and the Anza Borrego Desert.

My road trip begins a day earlier when I make the drive from my home in Santa Cruz to my fathers retirement apartment in Montecito. I have made this trip many times over the past several years, and my old Toyota Van, with 160,000 miles on the odometer, knows the way. If only I could accrue frequent driving miles in the same fashion as I collect my frequent flyer miles.

I sail down Hwy. 101, the rolling hills along side the highway, a velvety green, lush from the ample rains earlier this year. New growth tips the trees and splashes of psychedelic yellow mustard paint the hillsides. The color pallet along this stretch of landscape changes with each season surprising me each time that I make the drive. I can cut 15 minutes off the drive by taking Hwy. 154 up via Cachuma lake. This part of the drive is breathtaking in the late afternoon light, a montage of purple shadowed mountains against the horizon. The fires in recent years have left much of the hillsides barren and vulnerable, but a patchwork of new growth; dusty green and muted lavender is filling in the scarred hillside. For 15 miles I have been speeding uphill. The highway levels and begins to drop down and around the next curve, is the bay; shimmering and blinding the bright afternoon light, and the city of Santa Barbara a mirage below. I merge onto Hwy.101 at the height of Saturday afternoon freeway traffic and inch through Santa Barbara, bumper to bumper, arriving in Montecito, much later than usual. I change clothes in the parking lot at Vons market and am only two minutes late when I stroll into the formal dining room at Casa Dorinda to

greet my father and his friends.

We have a new member to our dragon family. Several weeks back, a friend of Johns found “Munch” wandering lost in Santa Cruz. Unable to care for him properly, Munch has come to live with our two bearded dragons. Show Off and Spirit have accepted Much with few questions asked. This morning, when I checked on them, they were a happy pile of Dragon Love. Check out their beautiful scale pattern and their wonderful dragon claws.

Alisha and John at the Marty Magic booth.

Alisha and Marty