INDIAN HILL

I’m driving on I-15 from Victorville toward Barstow, starting up the old road past the faded gray quarry and the railroad track where the bin cars wait for gravel to roll into the cars.   Immense, gray tall structures with conveyer belts intertwined in a labyrinth of intersecting ramps and the railroad track filled with an outbound waiting to load.  It is an imposing structure and I like it.  The light is dusty and thin and not good for shooting photos, and I turn westbound up through the edge of town, past vast wrecking yards filled with flattened dead autos and up past the logistics airport.    The road turns into Highway 395 and I move north up to Kramer Junction, and then turn off the main road into Randsburg.  It’s a dusty faded squatting town filled with backyards of junk and plywood sheds, a few main streets intersecting but no interesting restaurants, cafes, but only a couple of motels with cracking paint blistering in the desert heat.    Pulling through town the road connects

I take winter in moderation. Years living in Wyoming and Colorado gave me an honest perspective about seasons.  I don’t need ice and sub-zero temps now, but I do like a little snow, rain, stormy late afternoons and driving back roads like Route 66.  Up near Wrightwood, past the crest before the road winds down to Phelan, snow was a foot deep and clouds rolled in at the end of the storm.