Eastern Sierras

"This whole ocean thing is a relatively new infatuation," I explained to the hitchhiker sitting shotgun, as if rekindling a friendship with a childhood neighbor. "I've spent the better part of the last eight months hunting waves, but now that I'm back near mountains,  I'm realizing how much I missed them."

Pulling an iPod touch from the pocket of his down jacket,  the hitchhiker snapped a photo of the mountain range on our left.  "They sure are...beautiful," he said in a thick Quebecois accent.

"They are hard to beat... How long have you been on the road?"

"I've been in the States for a month and a half.  I caught a ride down from Montreal in late January with a few climbing friends.   I was supposed to head back two weeks ago, but my girlfriend and I ended it and I decided to stay around here."

"Ohh you guys broke up?  I'm sorry to hear that man."  The common bond of the road and knowledge that in a few hours, I would most likely never talk to him again eased normal constraints between strangers.

"Yeah,  she didn't understand the climbing lifestyle.  Each year I take off a few months and go climbing.  She had a hard time relating to that."

"Sounds familiar," I laughed. "Maybe it was for the best.  Some people are travelers,  others aren't.  It's a hard thing to explain to someone that doesn't see the world that way."

"It sure is."

A few hour before,  I had passed a lone hitchhiker on the edge of Mojave, a small town on the foothills of the Sierras.  Judging by his climbing mat, a cardboard "Bishop" sign and a backpack, I figured him a safe guest for the three-hour ride north.

Much to the excitement and relief of the hitchhiker, I pulled a U-ie, backtracked a few hundred yards and honked.  He rushed over with his gear in hand.  We engaged in a brief conversation before he threw his gear in the back and we headed north on 395.

View.

Here's to old signs.

Shred Sticks.

5000 feet.

#vanlife.

"Any place with wifi around here will be good man," he said as we pulled off 395 into downtown Bishop.

"You sure man?  I'm happy to drop you at the campground."

"No, no.  I need to check my email anyway... That place would be great,"  he said motioning to a drive in dinner a block a head.

Pulling into the parking lot,  I turned off the van.

"My name is Foster, by the way," I said as he hopped out of the front seat and opened the sliding door.

"I'm Justin.  Thanks for the ride, Foster."

"No problem,  Good luck out there."

Taking his bag from the back seat,  he slammed the door.

"You too," Justin said through the open window.

Starting the engine I pulled forward out of the parking lot and continued north on 395.  I still had four hours of driving to do before I called it a night.

Here are some more links,

Eastern Sierras (Facebook).

The Last Free Place

"Want to go explore this place?"  I asked Jason as I flicked a piece of gravel from a scrape on my elbow caused by a slam in the deep end of an abandoned pool.

"Yah, I'm over skating this spot."  Jason said leaning against the wall in the shallow end.

"Which way do you want to head?" Looking around in a 180-degree motion,  the occasional satellite dish on an RV punctuated the otherwise unremarkable deserted landscape.   In the distance a two-stroke engine, presumably from a motorcycle, whined.

"That stage looked really cool,"  Jason nodded west towards the main road.

"Yah, 'check that out.  I spotted some pretty neat campers too."

Leaving our skateboards by the van,  we headed back along a dirt road towards the center of an abandoned military base base in the California desert known as Slab City.

Following the road a half mile back towards the pull off, we passed a dozen or so makeshift camps composed of a vehicle and a structure of sorts,  usually an awning or tent. Each winter,  thousands of snowbirds, travelers and vagabonds pass through the Slab City.  These "slabbers" as they are called avoid rent and other obligations known to the majority of society by camping on abandoned building foundations or slabs.  An entire community has developed with a church, a barter-based internet cafe, post office, communal water source and a music venue, the Range.

Bejeweled.

 

Tyler Mummar impersonating a local.

Waiting line.

Haven is trailer in the California desert.

Purple rims.

Sign up.

The Range.

"You guys just get here?"  A kid in his 2o's said sitting next to a Chevy Astro van, some twenty feet from the road.

"Yea, just a few hours ago.  We are just passing through."

"Me too."

"This place is pretty wild,"  I said excitedly.  "How long have you been here?"

"Oh, two or three weeks.  I come through a few times a year,"  He said, kicking a beat-up tennis ball across the road for golden retriever.

"Ever been here in the summer?"

"Hell no. It gets to 120 in the shade.   You're not consider a true "Slabber" around here until you spend at least two summers camped out."

"Yah..No thanks, that sounds miserable."

"When are you hitting the road again?" Jason asked.

"Soon,  real soon.  I'm feeling restless.  Maybe two or three days."

Nodding in agreement, Jason and I continued down the road towards a group of RV's pulled together in a semi circle.  The golden retriever followed for fifty feet or so before being called back to the Astro.

"People lose track of time here."

"They sure do.  Did you hear that guy?  He said he was leaving real soon, '.... two or three days.'  Real soon for me is ten minutes.  Maybe fifteen."

"Haha.  When life's cheap,  things move slowly I guess."

"They do call it, 'the last free place on earth,'" I joked.

Here are some more links,

The Last Free Place (Facebook).

Desert Cement

"Could I start you gentlemen off with some drinks?" the waitress at an empty steakhouse in Deming, New Mexico inquired.

"Sure,  I'll have a Tecate," Ed, a staff photographer from a skateboard magazine, replied before the rest of us had the time to respond.

"What about you?" she asked me, moving around the table clockwise.

 Startled, I looked up from my phone, "uhhh, I'll have another Dos Equis."

"Me to0,"  Jason added, draining the remnants of the round of beer we had ordered at the bar.

Before the rest of the contingent of our  group could select their flavor of cheap beer,  she blurted, "I have to ask,  are you guys in a band?"

Laughter broke out amongst the six of us.  Earlier that day at a Denny's outside of Tucson,  our waiter had asked a similar question.

"No.  we are skateboarders," Mike said smiling.

"Ohh my son is a really into skateboarding. What are you doing in Deming?" she let slip with a hint of booze in her manner.

"We are on a road trip looking for abandoned pools and ditches."

 "Are you guys pros?!

"Thats' Mike Vallely,"  Tyler slurred after a day of drinking Tecates in the back of the Elephant van.

Everyone except for Tyler and the waitress cringed.

"Would you be interested in signing your autograph for him? He'd be thrilled."

"Of course, I'd be happy too.  Do you have a Sharpie?  We'll all sign it for him," Mike said turning towards the rest of us sitting at the booth.

Three days earlier,  I left my Syncro in LA and met up with Mike and the Elephant Skate crew for a week-long trip toeing the Mexican border through Arizona, New Mexico and Texas.  On the search for abandoned pools and street spots, we explored floundering housing developments and  drainage ditches throughout the desert. Dusting off my skateboard, I tagged along with a crew of veteran skaters and filmmakers, hearing their stories from years on the road.

No vacancy and no maintenance.

After the shot.

Sunset session.

The New Mexico prairie.  

Jason and Tyler watching.

Mike ripping the hook.

Ed Dominick and Mark Nisbit capturing. 

Close to the border. 

Mike sweeping out a pool.

Road rash in the making.

Urban exploration.

Signage.

Tyler Mummar doing a layback.

Red, White and Blue #vanlife. 

Jason Adams taking a breather.

Fullpipe.

Our trusty Ford E series Van.

Ready to rip.

A minute after I took this photo,  a large pit bull chased Ed and Tyler over the fence.

As promised,  the waitress reappeared after the steaks and burgers were finished with a medium sized Sharpie and a printout of Mike airing on a quarter pipe.  Standing in excitement, she watched as the print and Sharpie made its way around the table.

Ed handed me the paper and Sharpie and I nervously contemplated my signature.  Cursive or print?  Looking over the photo for some free real-estate,  I took a moment to read the signatures. Tyler, Jason Adams and Mike Vallely's signatures were well-honed, but on the verge of legible.  Mark's resembled a check signature with every character clearly scribed.  Where was Ed's?  A large printed name offered a hint.

Looking over at Ed, I burst out laughing.

"What?  I always sign this shit as Peter North."

Here are some links,

Desert Cement (Facebook),

@Fosterhunting (Twitter),

Elephant Skateboards.

Travelers of Baja

A laundry list of potential obstacles including but not limited to banditos, food poisoning, crooked cops, car problems and drug cartels applies to the US/Mexico border. Horror stories echo around the internet and campfire conversations.  This cycle of truth and exaggeration keeps going until many travelers scratch Baja off their list of places to visit.  Some accept these risks in search of empty waves, cheap travel and a desire to see what the West was like before it was developed.   These are some of the vehicles of the travelers I came across in Baja:

Rhinolined from head to toe.

 Best it's ever been.

My Syncro.

Travels with Charlie.

Schooly and VW.  These guys are in it for the long haul.

Note the ninja turtle.

Shredded.

His and her campers and surfboards.

#vanlife.

Some travelers come for a weekend while others stay for months or years.  Their vehicles range in size and price but all enable people to explore a place that many avoid.

Here are some more links,

Travels of Baja (Facebook),

@Fosterhunting (Twitter).