Anza-Borrego State Park

Sunday, Feb 9, 2003
Hikes: Borrego Palm Canyon, Wind Caves

Travelogue © 2003 Branislav L. Slantchev

We hop into the rental and head out to Anza-Borrego armed with the Falcon Guide to California. Without looking at the map, I guess that it's something like 40 miles from San Diego. As usual, I am wrong. It's more like 80 miles and by the time we get close to the park, it's almost noon. Not a good start for a desert hike.

We head straight to the Visitors' Center where the nice ladies turn out to have visited Bulgaria even though they can't seem to place it within half a continent from the Black Sea. After some thoughtful head-nodding and fake interest in our presence in the U.S. they finally tell us that every hike is pretty, which is not what we wanted to know. We eventually wrest the park fee information from them and it turns out that unless you wish to drive your lazy behind within five inches of a bighorn relishing the coolness of the palm oasis, you don't have to pay anything! Finally some good news.

We leave the car in the center's parking lot and head down the asphalt road to the Borrego Palm Canyon where we have been promised bighorn sheep, a creek, and a glimpse of the misleadingly titled Washingtonia filifera fan palms. Fascinating. As we get close to the trailhead, we discover that this hike is quite popular with little obnoxious kids and very loud parents.

The park ranger is very nice though and after taking a look at our miserably out of shape bodies cheerfully informs us to stick to the easy hike and not go beyond the palm grove because the trail isn't clearly marked there. We snort a polite response and demonstrate our desert-hiking proficiency by waving the Platypus in his face.

We then notice that it's empty.

Unfazed by the obvious irony, we fill it up from the nearby water fountain while the park ranger tries to keep a straight face.

At last! Ready to boldly go where a bunch of ten-year olds just went a minute ago. The path is easy to follow, with the usual desert bushes and weird plants. We hop from stone to stone and enjoy the brisk walk in the slight breeze. The weather is nearly perfect.

We meet several energetic hikers on their way back from the palm canyon. Each and every one of them makes it a point to tell us in excruciating detail about the bighorn sheep that apparently roam the nearby slopes by the thousands. Each and every one of them also makes sure that the wondrous story ends with "Pity you just missed them," or some variant thereof.

We cross two bridges and finally reach the first reward of the brief journey: a wonderful waterfall. A natural stone platform offers an eye-level position where one can sit, watch the tine droplets fall into the creek, and... or not: a guy is already there, in rapt contemplation of his navel, meaning that we'll have to stand in line for the spot.

Sighing imperceptibly, we decide to head for the oasis. The palms are unimpressive, mostly because everything around them has been trampled by sheep and bighorn hikers. I hear there's a restoration project to save the palms but from what I saw, they will need to shut this place completely off to bipeds.

A little kid prances by followed by her dad. She passes us and while we are negotiating safe passage with the father, we hear a thump and a snivel followed by whining that quickly gathers the strength of a flash flood. The little kid has met gravity. The dad glowers at us as if we have tripped the kid and then disappears around the boulder behind our backs.

We reach the oasis or the palm grove or whatever they call it. There's really nothing much to it but we brave like it intensely. We even sit down in the shade for a quick snack. I find out that Maggie has bought some funky power bars that only people whose taste buds have been surgically removed can possibly enjoy. My temporary crown falls off as I munch on either a dried apricot or its close chemical representation. The cool breeze is no longer pleasant because my exposed gums are extremely sensitive to everything including ultrasonic waves, disappearing bighorn sheep, and that smirk on the ranger's face.

We meet a platoon of organized hikers with kids. Before we can pretend we have not seen them, one of the boys tells not to take the "other" path back to the trail head because it's poorly marked and they got lost. One of the adults gives out an embarrassed laugh and offers the boy's laziness as an alternative explanation. I wonder why they feel they have to explain anything to us.

Naturally, we seek out the "other" trail and start on our way back. It's much, much better. It is at a mercifully sufficient distance from the populated trail that everyone else takes. It also offers a splendid view of the enormous plain surrounded by the mountains. I try to snap several photos but every time I look through the lens I see a flat image that cannot begin to convey the expanse before us. In desperation I photograph Maggie although she resents having to pose unassumingly but artfully for me.

I finally begin to enjoy the hike but then it's all over and we're back to the asphalt. Fortunately, it turns out that there's a scenic route to the Visitors' Center and so we don't have to thump clumsily in full view of motorists with varying degrees of doubtful avoidance skills. Instead we thread through sand and bush until we reach the car. The hike has consumed about 60 percent of the water in the Platypus even though we sucked really hard on it.

We eat the sandwiches in the cool shade of some tree and my temporary crown falls off again, this time in the midst of a banana chow. We look at the Falcon Guide and decide to head for the Wind Caves even though it is already late afternoon and we are not likely to get a whole lot of time for good pictures with the Velvia 50 and no tripod.

Driving down route 78 is OK but once we turn onto Split Mountain Road off Ocotillo Wells, it becomes a blast. There's nary a car around, the road undulates up and down seductively, and pretty soon we are doing 100 mph complete with "Wheeeeee!" screams when we hit the troughs. I love it. Maggie mutters something about the car suspension but who cares---it's a rental.

Then all of a sudden one of the "Wheeeee!"s turns into an "AAAAAAAAAARGH!": the maintained road abruptly ends without so much as a warning sign. The Mazda proves that it can brake rather well. After the cloud of dust settles we notice a rather un-hikeable industrial site in front of us. We have missed the entrance to Split Mountain. We double back and after getting some timely directions from a guy who's fixing the tire of his SUV, we carefully drive down the unpaved road toward the caves.

The scenery is gorgeous and looks like lunar landscape, even down to the tracks of the lunar lander. We see several 4WDs and begin feeling a bit stupid for negotiating the rough terrain in a puny compact. Eventually we run out of road, or rather, our puny compact runs out of road and we are forced to continue on the footmobile.

No people around. This is suspicious. Where did everyone go? We walk a couple of miles stopping occasionally to photograph beautiful dirt formations. Some of them remind me of the Bamiyan Buddha statues and I suddenly develop an urge to fire mortars at them. Being a more civilized version of the Taliban, I content myself with snapping a couple of pictures instead.

Another bend of the road and no sign of the Wind Caves. We stumble across a couple sitting next to their parked car. I cannot imagine why they'd just sit there but they do. At least they tell us we've missed the trail to the Wind Caves a couple of miles back.

We turn around and march back, retracing our steps, admiring the dirt Buddha imitations, and feeling both stupid (because we did not see the trail) and glad (because the setting sun is no longer blinding us). We reach our car and then notice the trail head right next to it.

Climbing to the Wind Caves is nothing to write home about but the view from the top certainly is. The desolate slopes remind me of scenes from Kurosawa films, especially the demon episode of "Dreams." I lift the camera and peer through the lens... another major disappointment. There's just no way to capture the scenery with the pathetic 50mm. I resolve to buy a 28mm as soon as I can afford it.

The Wind Caves themselves are cool. What's less cool are the people camping in them. I can see why someone might think it's a neat idea to do so but it annoys the hell out of me anyway, especially because it is easy to tell that people camp there all the time. Between the unsightly display of hiking underwear and the unpleasant hint of stale urine smell, the sense of romance expired as an unlucky sailor caught between Scylla and Charybdis.

We turn back, leaving the desecrated caves and stop dead in our tracks: the sunset is breathtaking. I furiously shoot away, cursing my lack of preparation, not having a tripod, and having loaded the camera with super slow film. Then I remember to admire the sunset so I put away the beast and just stare. Maggie loves it too. The day has not been that bad after all.

On our way back to San Diego, I nearly fall asleep while driving so Maggie takes over until we reach some restaurant in Santa Ysabel. We part with our hard-earned cash in return for overpriced and badly cooked steaks at a place that pretends to be upscale with the unmistakably pathetic earnestness of a genuine yokel. Do they serve coffee? "Of course." Do they have espresso? "Uh, what's that?"

We drive off and I test some of my newly awoken reactions by speeding in the darkness. Maggie throws a fit, so I slow down. We finally make it to San Diego, not quite exhausted but unexpectedly and inexplicably happy. Then I remember I have to write the lecture for next day's class. The euphoria does not last long... unlike the sore muscles.

February 21, 2003.