Tripping through the desert, no less than 200 feet below sea level, we decided to see what we might find. We had elected to depart the week prior on what had been a rapidly approaching sense that the desert had summoned us there. Feeling as though we were in no position to refuse the invitation, we submitted to The Calling.
We went upon request, not only to appease our host, but to quench our collective curiosity and satisfy the restlessness that had worked its way through our circulatory systems at ever increasing doses in the months prior to the departure. Our veins had become so concentrated with the need to flee that the profusely intolerable side-effects had manifested themselves in persistent night sweats, nervous fidgeting, and severe anxiety attacks. We had sensed negative vibrations all around and knew the darkness was closing in. It would only be a matter of time before we would begin to disappear. At which point, there would be no usable pieces left. The inevitable day had come when we felt we had been left no choice but to skillfully slip the noose and flee at first light.
Our journey had commenced the following morning with a swift, but subtle exit to the south. As we rolled down Highway 82 on four bald tires, we were propelled forward by great promise and the anticipation of what awaited us down the road. We craved a fundamental shift, a renewal of spirit, to be removed one step further from the isolation of our own lives. We were searching for a new sense of harmony only attainable through the sacrifice of who we were and the embrace of that which we were to become. We sought out a place where no external forces could get at us, a place where we would be protected by a new comprehension, the profound understanding that we were part of a larger presence; and in this, we knew we would find lasting peace, Contentment.
Twenty-four hours post-exodus, cutting a beeline straight down the West Coast toward the southernmost point of our excursion, we found ourselves approaching the shores of the Salton Sea, a place few could truly appreciate. But we understood. We knew what this region meant. After all, we had journeyed here to die on its shores, amongst the crystallized fish carcasses, and be reborn by virtue of the land. We were to be reincarnated, mid-cycle.
This place was special. It held a sea that, having died a quiet death in this valley many times over, understood the ebbs and flows of life, the droughts and floods, scarcity and excess. This ancient expanse embodied the inability to maintain balance and stability. It knew that security and dependability exist only in the cyclic motion of things–what has come to be will soon expire and what has run dry will be replenished over the course of time. The sea understood resurrection. And it was, in fact, the search for resurrection that had brought us here to this California desert valley.
Beginning with a distant reflection, a glistening twinkle of sunrays, a visual echo shooting off the surface of the sea’s course and swollen exterior, the valley began to reveal itself. As we dropped deeper into its vortex, the landscape opened up before us and disappeared out into a distant haze. This majestic sea, with its shallow, saline waters, stretched out across the ancient lake bed. The valley, bordered by a set of formidable mountain ranges, revealed a time in which its towering peaks had served as mere islands in what had once been the abyssal waters of the Colorado Delta. The harsh mountain walls told the story of a faithful valley, patiently awaiting the return of its beloved sea, pronouncing the years in which it had endured, despondent in its despair, grieving the loss of its companion.
Certainly this basin could not be categorized as one of the biomes known to occupy the globe. We must have slipped through a wormhole somewhere off Highway 111, running eastbound out of Palm Springs, to arrive at our present location. This environment was a planet unto itself, a monument to the indiscriminate brutality of time. The region appeared to be one forgotten, devastatingly beautiful in its desolateness, its bleak, forsaken isolation, its unsheltered vulnerability and unmoving strength.
We spent the day in a prolonged slingshot around the giant sea, circling the wide southern tip that was littered with archaic farms and primitive structures. Running along the eastern shoreline, it was apparent that this place, once a budding tourist destination, had fallen into a state of disrepair. Deserted beaches, docks, and facilities, formerly built to accommodate L.A. weekenders, were swallowed up by rising waters and now stood only partially visible. Defunct electrical lines cut straight into the watery basin and disappeared beneath the waves. It appeared as though some catastrophic event had happened here, some small-scale apocalypse, and Nature was now reclaiming all that man had built.
Staring in silent reverence across the expansive sea, we wondered how it was that we recognized a piece of ourselves here. Maybe it was the extent to which we had felt marginalized that created so strong a connection with such a remote and detached landscape. Like us, the region had been judged, dismissed, and discarded. We had come here to visit our geological equivalent. And after a day spent orbiting the synonymous sea, we too, like all those before us, would cast off and abandon her. Without a tinge of regret, we jumped into the car and drove away, with the Salton Sea growing smaller in the rear view, though neither of us could bear to watch as it shrank into oblivion.
Strangeland Journal 