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Message: <blockquote data-quote="Desertphile" data-source="post: 350" data-attributes="member: 73">2/3When my brother and I were twenty-one years old we went exploring the Valjean Valley, looking for a place called Rabbit Holes Spring in the East Mojave Desert. The route in to the valley is along the T&T railroad right of way.We drove into Valjean Valley on the railroad right of way (the rails and ties were long gone, “high graded” as building materials for other tasks), in my pickup early one morning, and we walked the final three miles or so to the spring. There is no surface water there, but if one is willing to dig five or six feet into the sand and gravel one will reach water. There was nothing of interest to see, and the morning was very warm, but the hike beat anything else we could think of to do.When we hiked back to our vehicle at about 10:00 AM, we had just put our back packs and other gear into the pickup when we heard what sounded like a train coming at us from the west. We looked westward and saw a tall, wide curtain of dirt blotting out the sky. It looked like a biblical apocalypse sent by an angry god was thundering down upon us. We got into the pickup, rolled up the windows, and braced ourselves.A mighty blast of furnace-hot wind struck the pickup, along with an astounding amount of dirt, sand, brush, leaves, items of clothing, rusty tin cans, plastic bags, a trash can lid, pieces of barbed wire--- anything and everything in the desert that was not nailed down came our way at high speed. The heat inside of the pickup became unbearable, so we climbed out on the leeward side and hunkered down with our backs against the wheels, hands cupped in front of our faces to help keep the dirt out of our eyes and sinuses. Visibility plunged from miles to mere feet, when we could open our eyes at all.The desert eventually ran out of trash to throw at us, so it settled down to just dirt and the occasional creosote plant. It kept coming and coming and coming, and the stinging dirt itself felt so hot it was like being sprayed with droplets of oil from a deep fryer.Every few minutes one of us would ask the other if he was still alive. The dust got into our eyes, and our ears, and between our teeth, and in every conceivable nook and cranny and orifice. The wind got even hotter as the day dragged tediously into the afternoon. Our sinuses dried out until they were in agony; our mouths dried out, and our tongues felt like dry sticks in our mouths.The entire day passed in a pandemonium of dirt-filled hot wind. The sun, which was an ugly burnt orange color, set behind the hills to the west, and still the dust storm hammered us relentlessly.About an hour after the sun had set, the wind suddenly and abruptly ceased blowing. It was like someone had thrown a switch, and the mighty fans of Hell had powered down. Our ears rang from the quiet. Our lips were cracked and split open, but the sores were so dry they didn’t bleed. Old defensive knife wounds on my desiccated hands and arms, that had healed years ago, had mysteriously reopened. The amount of filth that clung to our bodies and clothing could only be seen to be believed, and not adequately imagined.My brother and I stared at each other in the dwindling twilight like survivors of an atomic bomb blast. How he managed to speak, I still have no idea, but my brother parted his withered and blistered lips and asked, “What! The! Fuck!?”The block of ice in our Coleman ice chest had completely melted. We filled our water containers and drank the rest, though I had to use one hand to pry my mouth open wide enough to get water in there. When I drank, the hot water washed over the dry, dusty cracks in my mouth and tongue and it was agonizing but in a refreshing way.Around 9:00 PM that evening, as we were laying on our filthy, gritty blankets and trying to sleep, we heard what sounded like a train coming at us from the east.“No....” my brother said in the dark somewhere to my left. We could not see it coming, but we heard the howling wind coming back at us in the dark. My brother mentioned something about “But this only happens in the movies!” as we raced to hide behind the vehicle on its western side.For much of that night the east wind threw back westward the trash and dirt and gravel and brush and shit that it had blown eastward during the day. Now and then the hot blasting wind would have an inexplicable gust of frigid air within it, and I would shiver with the cold for a few minutes, then the cruel hot wind would return.The sun rose that morning blood red. Within a few minutes of its rising, the terrible wind fell silent and the airborne dirt settled to the desert floor. My brother and I once again shook the dirt off of us, as we struggled to stand.I would have shed massive tears, but my body had no moisture left. I stammered at my brother phrases like, “I... I... I’ve suffered enough!” and, “Please! No more!” and, “Make it stop!” We had no more drinking water, and every breath brought agony to my chest. My brother agreed that maybe the vacation should end early. We had enjoyed the desert enough.Then he got the bright idea of visiting Soda Spring, to bathe naked in the ecologically sensitive micro environment while the scientists and the college students watched us in disgust and horror. Which we did, maybe setting off the latest mass extinction event in the area. The desert was good times, and comprised my fondest memories. That is why, when I felt the need to divorce myself from society for a few months, I chose the desert to spend it in. Or one could say the desert chose me, since even when it was being hostile to me, it never meant to be. The desert has always offered to me refuge when my people-wearied mind needs it.</blockquote>

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