There are a handful of notorious ‘blood alleys’ throughout California. As I mentioned in a prior segment concerning Highway 154, lots of folks think that short stretch of road is one of them, but statistically, in numbers of accidents per driver capita, it’s not.
Yet there are indeed definitive California highways who deservedly, indisputably, have earned that dubious title. Some of the more notorious ones include my frequently cited Yucca Valley/Morongo Basin road, Highway 62, as well as Highway 46 (that’s the stretch of road between Atascadero/Paso Robles and Kettleman City, where James Dean met his vehicular end), Highway 166 between Santa Maria and Bakersfield, Highway 126 between Ventura and Valencia, Highway 37 between the Napa River and Sears Point, Highway 99 between Sacramento and Redding, and the one prominently featured in this segment, Pearblossom Highway.
Pearblossom is a cross-sector amalgam of Highways 138 and Highway 18. I’m bringing up Pearblossom today because it’s fresh in my mind, due to my recent dash across its sketchy plains in the high desert. My wifey and I headed out to Vegas to catch Eagles at the Sphere (fyi, if you’re a live music aficionado like myself, you simply must catch a show at that Next Level Venue…I shit you not). Unfortunately, we had no dog sitter, and so were required to do a round trip the same day, something I do not advise if you’re coming from the central coast, as it’s a twelve hour ordeal. Not that the Sphere isn’t worth it. It is. But that kind of driving is for youngsters. I made it, with lots of coffee boosters, but getting back to our doggo at 530 in the morning, after having driven for so long, and dealing with Vegas itself, not to mention two hours of epic, awesome music…it was an endurance trial. Did I mention I’m a concert whore? I have elsewhere, hereabouts within my Stack.
The funny thing is, I hadn’t been to Vegas in 20 years. Not until December of 2023 did I finally return. I have some separate musings on the state of Las Vegas, after two decades of exile, and perhaps I’ll go into that another time, but I’ll say this much…boy oh boy, is Primm and Stateline a desperate, downtrodden oasis these days. Heck, I remember Stateline as the last stop on the way out Sunday night, pulling over to Whiskey Pete’s or Buffalo Bill’s to wait out the bumper to bumper traffic on the 15, and it was always buzzing, packed wall to wall, with people trying to win back their losses on the Strip 40 miles east. Now? It’s a ghost town, with Whiskey Pete’s about to go under after clearing out their blackjack tables and only last stop slots remaining, Buffalo Bill’s on its last legs, the Primadonna Casino closed for many years after a horrific killing of a child there, the riverboat-styled casino Nevada Landing long gone, another newer joint Terrible’s already shuttered. I remember thinking in my early twenties that Primm was a majestic gateway into what beckoned deep within Sin City. No longer. The Strip itself is maudlin as ever, with a lot more high end hotels competing against one another, thus did the Venetian bring about the Sphere venue, the lure which tempted me enough to brave Las Vegas anew.
As such, now I’ve sped across Pearblossom six times inside of a year, three en route, three on the way back, my return trips executed in the dead of night, way past midnight when a good majority of the bloodier accidents tend to occur. Loyalist fans of The Road know what I’m about to say next. Yep, there were many, many descansos littered about Pearblossom. In fact, I’d go so far as to say the fractional ratio might’ve even outpaced Yucca’s Highway 62 usual high standard…at least, over this last year.
Pearblossom is a sketchy road. Its rolling topography and narrow lanes, with steep drop-offs on its shoulders, its hills of pavement going up and down repeatedly, so much so that if you’re speeding along in the dead of night (like I was), you can’t see approaching cars in the other lane due to the dips. If you’re not a master behind the wheel, you absolutely can get air on some of those rises if you’re not careful, especially if you’re exceeding speed limits, which as Road regulars have sussed out, is a common infraction of the California Motor Code in our desert regions.
For those of you not in the know, Pearblossom is the road people like me who reside on California’s central coast must take to get to Vegas. It’s still a six hour drive one way. Otherwise, you are forced to head down to the eastern Los Angeles basins to take Highway 15 all the way into Vegas. It’s a Point Conception thing (look at the map). My part of the Golden State exists on California’s ‘elbow,’ and because of that geographic reality, we require an extra two hours or so to get to anything centralized in Northern Cal or Southern Cal, and definitely anything in Nevada or Arizona.
Highways 136 and 18 and their environs are consummate examples of high desert life: exorbitant temperatures, off-grid homesteaders, low end strip malls, graffiti-strewn shacks and boarded-up ancient businesses, unpaved driveways leading to survivalist compounds, impromptu rubber tire art installations. The whole area is pretty much a dumping ground for the flotsam and jetsam of 20th century industrialism and hardscrabble drifters who’ve fallen through the cracks of our Pax American capitalist system. Pearblossom’s most famous landmark is a roadside novelty shop called Charlie Brown Farms, a quirky trader’s outpost boasting all manner of offerings, including exotic jerky, antiques, BBQ and date milkshakes, vintage toys and candy, locally farmed honey, and house-made fudge. Stop in if you’re around. It’s an experience. Short of that, Pearblossom is pretty much a path to get to somewhere else, rather than a destination.
On this particular trip last weekend, as I pulled over to snap a shot of a newly erected descanso, we happened to witness a fellow wanderer. He was adorned in a tattered overcoat (this time of year, the desert barometer is slightly more forgiving), and carried what seemed to be a classic, hobo-style bindle, replete with bandanna on the end of a stick. He was accompanied by a shaggy, feral-looking dog. What was most intriguing was, he was going off-trail, leaving the highway, not via an established path or a dusty driveway, but literally walking out into the desert, away from the highway shoulder and into the tumbleweed-strewn stretch of arid desert leading absolutely nowhere. I watched for a time, until he receded from view. There was NOTHING out that way, save for, I suppose, a dugout sort of abode he’d fashioned for himself, one would hope, because otherwise it was quite literally death on a stick waiting for him (pun intended). He was a Fallout character come to life (I write more about this strange, southeast Californian phenomenon over in The Bear and the Star at this segment).
I’m not overly romanticizing an unhoused, drifting brethren of mine. His raggedy clothing, his canine companion, his grizzled, hardened countenance, his apparent resolution in walking out into the wasteland. The only thing that was missing was a firearm of some sort slung on his back or holstered at his hip. I guess it’s possible he was leaving the road to take a leak, but again…the dog! Unleashed dog. Pearblossom is a stellar way of getting your unleashed dog killed by walking along its near non-existent shoulders. Yes, sure, maybe he didn’t have a choice. I’d have gladly given him funds and a dog leash, if I’d had the opportunity. In any case, he certainly added to the already pronounced ambience of Pearblossom’s end-of-the-world flavor.
I made several stops on our way to Vegas to honor a great number of decedents memorialized roadside (my wife was getting impatient, showtime was at 8:30 pm, and we were running late). But there was just so many of them, a number of which were elaborate creations, more than a few having sitting benches for visiting family and friends. Some were in disarray, some were newly tendered, some maintained with loving care. Some were affirmation-heavy, still others a bit ominous.
Ronald Rosales
Unknown
Daniel, Michael, Raul
J. Guadalupe Labra
Shane Ramirez
Julio Flores
Unknown
Jacob and Sarah
Jason Hernandez
At Jason’s ramshackle memorial, there was a wooden placard aside the cross. Its messages were somewhat foreboding. The descanso appeared older than the sign, as the placard did have a brief line about Halloween, and it’s that time of year this month. I couldn’t quite understand its intent. It seemed to be an appeal, one that in tone would appear to be along the lines of what panhandlers might often scribe, except that it was inked on an actual piece of plywood, not the usual cardboard. Its wording was cryptic at minimum. It might have been an litany concerning undocumented immigration, or a simple anti-dehumanization message. I don’t know. I only know it made me sad for the state of humanity. Another nuance of Pearblossom’s dreary surroundings. It was probably cast aside by someone looking for help, and it just happened to land near Jason’s descanso, and it wasn’t necessarily part of Jason’s dedication, because, well, Jason was beyond the point of needing any of earthly assistance. For all I know, it was tossed away by the Fallout guy, who’d come to the highway from their desert cave to seek alms, though at that stretch of Highway 18, such altruism would be a tall order, what with everyone zipping by at seventy plus.
It said, in patchwork horizontal and vertical writing: “Non-lawless, unwanted, non-ruthless, please help, brother, Happy Halloween.”
Maybe it’s just me, but I found the juxtaposition of those sentiments wildly provocative. This empathy thing in my old age is gonna kill me, eventually. Whomever penned this, I hope you found the help you needed. I truly do.