Greetings From Hellhole

There are a series of canyons in the inland regions of San Diego County, blasted to rubble mountains at the Imperial County line.  The mountains are mammoth in some places, mere boulders in others, with vegetation sparse and monochromatic enough that it’s easier to notice varying colors in the dead than it is in the living.

Right about this time of year, however, the vegetable  tends to impress the animal and give the mineral a run for its money.  When my brother and sis-in-love and I headed for the desert this past Saturday, we were too early for the fireworks, but still witnessed a show.

Saturday’s journey gave for good timing.  We arrived at my brother’s favorite of the canyons, Hellhole, just after 11:30 a.m.  The trailhead to the canyon lies just off highways 76, 78, and 79 outside of Berrago Springs.  The parking lot is less marked and more implied (a former dream of Edward Abbey), with a cement two-person outhouse at one end and warning signage under a shelter at the other end.  The trails (there are three) going into the canyon are also implied, but lose influence when the hiker starts to make the destination.  But I’m getting ahead of myself.  The whole trail we embarked on, by the way, should be noted to be eight miles round trip, six of that hiking, two climbing over chest-high impediments.

The ground cover leading up to the impediments is gravel, slightly smaller than that found in an aquarium, but not small enough to be sand, and packed firm but not solid.  The gravel is the color of creme brûlée and never kills the feet, given proper shoes are worn.  I ventured on the trail dressed in the following:

• Cargo pants with zip-off legs;
• A long-sleeved breathable shirt of thin, breathable athletic material;
• A wide-brimmed cotton canvas hat;
• Sunglasses, avec girly bling;
• Hiking socks;
• Hiking boots, eight inches high at the cut;
• The assumed foundation garments.

In my cargo pockets and on my person I carried:

• Bottled water, Sigg style, in a holster with a cross-body strap;
• Three granola bars;
• Lip balm;
• My cell phone;

What I should have changed in that collection was chilling the water overnight in the fridge in the bottle, but everything else was only what was needed for the day.  The trail was 73 F and felt like 80 F, but my goal was to keep a steady pace, not a race, and not a lesson in window shopping.  My brother took the lead, with my sis-in-love next and me last.  The trail showed some incline, but didn’t wind us.  We spied hummingbirds, a boatload of bees, a rattlesnake sleeping in sagebrush, and a bird called a phainopepla, commonly known as a black cardinal.  Perched on cacti they look like Cajun cardinal or the shadow of a cardinal.  They do not sound like one.

What is most ironic about Hellhole is its name--the destination point of the trails is a grove of palm trees, a Japanese maple, and a series of waterfalls.  In other words, if people in Hellhole want water, they can find it.  Getting to it takes perseverance and flexibility--at one point the boulders required that I jump and suck in my gut simultaneously.  A cross-training desert.

The jungle within was quiet, hushed, and sported the strongest cell signal of my time in SoCal.  I considered staying.  Visitors would be few and wild, and I could etch my stories on palm fronds.  But the granola bars wouldn’t last forever and my outfit lacked toilet paper, so I eventually saw reason.  No flowers this time, but lots of reason.

Coming back from the trail, halfway back to Carlsbad, the desert suddenly gives over to a cluster of casinos.  My brother has something called Diamond status with the Harrah’s casino there, and we stopped by for a buffet on the way home.  Imagine, dear reader, that three travelers walk into a restaurant.  The punchline mentioned something about bells, whistles, flashing lights, and all-you-can-eat salisbury steak.  We had finally found Hellhole.