A DRIVE ON THE SIERRA'S WILDER SIDE
Over the years I’ve driven across the lands on the east side of the Sierras. It’s always different. It always arousing curiosities
photographs by Paul G Ryan
When I leave Los Angeles, northbound, there is a long straight passage of road – a sere landscape, no hills, no buildings, no people.
Sand, rock, and stunted plants.
Nothing to impede the power of the eastward headed winds blowing directly across the highway. Speedrolling tumbleweed.
Occasionally a long flat sided trailer truck is blown onto it’s side, like a gunshot big game.
This is not the common route to the North, it’s not beside the Pacific Ocean nor along the six lane highways of the Central Valley
There is something uncertain about this route, For me, it’s a route to skiing at Mammoth, but beyond, it heads to no obvious place. A vague promise of discovery between California’s Sierra and Nevada’s White Mountains.
Once, and even still, it’s a place of solitary frontier seekers, with no wagon trains, alone with vaguely defined ambition and hope. Dreams of entrepreneurship
Escapees from overbearing demands and complications of city life, the imaginings of the satisfaction of solitude, no one to bother, no acquiescence.
After many miles, there start to appear vestiges of once ambitious enterprises, a vacant gasoline station, a broken house, an abandoned fruit stand.
There’s a sign: “DunMovin” in the remains of a few houses - as far as some fatigued western pioneers got. They hoped to make it their home but it didn’t work out
Road boredom breeds imagination, the shapes out there - shapes of rocks that seem anthropomorphic
Then I’m brought back to the reality of today – billboards promise refreshing stuff up ahead
Speed is irrelevant, until a big trailer truck comes toward me in the opposite lane screaming by three feet away. Its wind blows me sideways.
I push the speedometer to 100 – just to see it – then I remember years ago doing that and getting a ticket from an unmarked highway patrol coming the other way. It was 300 dollars.
Too often I resist my instinct to cut loose from the highway – to explore. So the curiosities of distant forms, creations of unknown people, that small white house on the salt flat, where that side dirt road would lead to…. And so I have built up a briefcase of unfulfilled explorations.
It comes up suddenly - Olancha; the first town -
Population - 162 - Speed limit 35 MPH
She had the confidence to open this place. She’s from New Orleans. She wasn’t sure why she came here, other than she wanted to try something different.
It’s the first sign of civilization heading north, so she figured she’d get lots of road tired drivers. At least that was true of me..
Decent Apple Pie.
Not so good coffee.
No Espresso
Curious conversations
From a travel review: “….parking lot loaded with tractor trailers, campers, and pick up trucks so we figured the food must be either amazing or terrible….”
After this, the land begins to rise along the west side of 395. Imperceptivley at first. Then abruptly.
The side road to Mount Whitney – a climb that I always wanted to do – some other day maybe – But maybe there won’t be time.
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End of part one
Good place to get lost 🌈🫶🏻
Very evocative and haunting. Love that highway.