2009-08-01: Back into the San Joaquin Valley I plunged, attempting to arrive in Barstow before nightfall. It did not happen that way. I passed through the town of Lost Hills, home to a massive oil field full of pumpjacks in a variety of drab colours. These are sometimes called "Nodding Donkeys". Literally hundreds of them tilted slowly up and down. For whatever reason, I found it slightly unsettling. I neglected to get any photos so I've posted some I've found on the Internet.
After a 5 or 6 hour haul, I pulled into Barstow for fuel and something to drink, and looking around, I decided I could not stay there. The town looked sickly. The surface of the dusty freeway had been shattered by passing trucks and was illuminated by the ghastly yellow-green glow of ageing streetlights. Shabby motels, bearing weather-worn signs from decades past, lined the main strip, their little lights flickering on and off. Greasy 24-hour diners offered guaranteed stomach discomfort. Liquor stores, sex shops, and tattoo parlours, their windows guarded by thick steel bars, filled in the gaps.
Beyond the town's east side, the dark emptiness of the Mojave Desert awaited my attempt to cross it. I intended to start early the next morning, but I did not think sleeping in Barstow was a desirable thing. My map indicated that there was a rest stop 20 miles out on Interstate 15. Midnight was approaching and the temperature was still around 89 degrees. There was no wind. I rolled down my window and assumed I'd be left alone while I slept at this bustling highway outpost in the desert.
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