Jawbone Canyon to Lake Isabella: Marks Left in the Mountains

Jawbone Canyon to Lake Isabella: Marks Left in the Mountains

By Armando Ortiz

We started our overland one day expedition by meeting up at the Friends of Jawbone station. It's right next to highway 14. The visitor/rest stop is 15 minutes south of the 395. Hardly any cars drove by. Pulling in, my brother’s rig was already there. For this adventure I used Southern California Backroads & 4-Wheel Drive Trails by Charles A. Wells as a guide to reach Bodfish, CA. 

The shade that Jawbone Canyon gave kept the air cool. Before reaching a security booth we made a right onto the dirt road. Driving on Jawbone Canyon Rd a couple of miles, we gained steady elevation — Joshua trees, sotol, yucca and other desert fauna abounded. The air was warming up quickly and the sky’s dark blue was getting lighter. We reached a ridge where turbines or windmills stood. A morning breeze was non-existent. We paused, exited our cars, and talked before beginning our descent into Kelso Valley. We could see the natural green carpet covering the valley floor. 

Approaching the flattest area, we turned left and drove through the valley. To the right there were granite outcroppings. The area was fenced off on both sides – private property. Cows and horses grazed the green pastures. After a short time, signs of the past revealed themselves. Something that looked like giant bowling balls covered with foliage and other organic materials came to view. I stopped the truck and walked up to an uncovered part that looked like a mortar. After looking around, I noticed that several places had grinding depressions. I could hear our engines running at a distance. This area might have been a water source or at least a seasonal camp, making it a perfect place to process food. I took some photos and returned.

Ascending, more and more oak trees, both evergreen and deciduous, now lined the trail. The more elevation gained the more black oak with its delicate lobed leaves could be seen. From the window of the car the valley below kept getting smaller. The forest extended south of the mountains. We stopped at a place where we saw the foundations of an abandoned home. A brick chimney stood there among trees. Could this have been the home of a lone miner working on his claim?  After a few minutes we arrived at another collection of boulders and stopped the trucks to explore. Now a mix of oak and pine trees shaded us all around. Nearby was a small sign on a post that signaled the Pacific Crest Trail. This trail starts at the border of Mexico and takes thru hikers up to Canada.

Still driving on Jawbone Canyon Rd, we reached an old mine with a conical structure. Inside, the light pierced the sheet metal like laser beams. Gunshot bullets might have created that effect. This stretch of trail was mostly flat, the air felt cool and damp on the skin. A few minutes later, I stopped the truck near some boulders to find any signs of prior human life. Nothing was found. We made a left on to Paiute Mountain Rd tracing the contours of the mountains, and the fenced off properties, until we reached an open space. We stopped to take a break at Piute Peak Camp. My brother took out some oranges from the cooler. The flesh of the fruit was refreshing. Being surrounded by tall pine trees was a very pleasant moment. A sign pointed towards Paiute Peak. After a quick climb, we started driving down towards a gentle slope. It seemed that we were entering a different world. The light show had been cool, and the next section would be just as interesting.

A year prior a wildfire passed through this section of the mountain, the Borel fire 2024. This area had been completely burnt. Black trees, like giant needles solemnly stood, and a grey scale of ash covered the area. Some of the trees had blue ribbons, marked to be chopped down. The gentle slopes were completely carbonized. Dark shadows came to life in the midday sun - all seemed black. But there was a water source- a brook. Along the tiny creek, fresh green vegetation vibrated under the light. On the western side almost next to the truck lay a boulder. I got out, my feet sank onto the thick layer of pine needles. As I approached, mortars could be seen at the top. My mind, for a moment, heard rhythmic pounding, and people conversing by the rocks. One can easily spend hours looking around, but our destination was the Kern River. There were too many boulders to explore but not enough time on that day.

Once again, we drove, the pervasive signs of the fire that swept through the area was everywhere. There looked to have been a motorhome community, which brought me back to the present - evening television, checking of emails, and the hum of power generators. Following the natural curves of the mountain along Saddle Spring Road, barren trees, gray boulders, and darkened slopes seemed frozen in time. It felt as waves of settlement were covered and uncovered by nature’s power and time's enduring patience. There were empty little square subdivisions. Everything had been incinerated. The likelihood of people returning seemed high though. If people were here thousands of years ago, the area would continue to attract them. We started to descend. The landscape was apocalyptic, dusty propane tanks stood lonely, concrete foundations covered in ashes, and the oxidized axles that once held homes or cars lay abandoned. 

As we began our descent the road got rough. There were reddish and beige rocks on the ground with more ruts than where we started from. The landscape again began to transition to semi-desert fauna. This area had its own harshness: it was rockier, and drier with hardy desert fauna on the mountain side. With every other turn there were pinon pines and juniper trees. We finally reached the end of the trail. The dusty tires were back on a paved road - Caliente Bodfish Road. The drive was an unexpected revelation of all the people that have called these mountains home. A reflection of all the vestiges that seem to recycle themselves over time with places that were once called home or where people processed raw materials. Now on the road we passed the town of Bodfish and headed to the Kern River.

Under the Shadow: Free-verse

Under the Shadow

By Armando Ortiz

Under the shadow of an absent father I grew 

and the shade of mother’s embrace gave courage. 

The stars reminded me that life is a miracle, 

and even in darkness it guides our way.

Inside passing storms 

we weather floods, 

and below the shade of trees rest our feet 

as countless stars quench our droughts.

Wine, Waves and Change: Reading Steinbeck’s Tortilla Flat in Paris

 

Wine, Waves and Change: Reading Steinbeck’s Tortilla Flat in Paris

By Armando Ortiz

I read John Steinbeck’s Tortilla Flat while traveling through France. Although I was there, his book transported me to a more familiar place. It took me back to the Central Coast of California where a crash of waves could be heard - Monterey. At one point I sat in a cafe facing the Notre Dame Cathedral as endless foreign voices drifted past, and yet I could feel that cool onshore wind.

Steinbeck introduces most of the gang of characters in the first few chapters; Danny, the indifferent property owner who inherits land from a relative; Pilon, the risk-taker always trying to get easy money– mostly for wine; and Pirate with his five dogs. Unlike his friends, he peddles bundles of wood and saves most of his earnings. He also survives by getting handouts. The money is kept safe under Danny's pillow.

Many scenes are absurd and outlandish. Reading this tragedy becomes just as enjoyable as reading Don Quixote. There is a scene that involves a vacuum. Later a Mexican soldier wanders into town having lost his wife to a captain and the gang give him a place to rest. 

Though they cheat and scheme, the gang remains loyal to each other. They seem to be characters from Don Quixote, people who go about their business, but in their doomed idealism find themselves in the midst of comic situations. The list of background characters adds more texture to Steinbeck’s story, becoming almost a representation of the painting that I stood in front of while visiting a museum.

At the Orsay Museum I found myself staring at a painting by Leon Frederic’s “Les ages de l’ouvrier” or The Ages of the Worker where a group of young homeless children are playing a game of cards. It seems as if they are gambling with each other's fate and meager earnings. 

I thought of Pilon and Danny who also risk their luck every day trying to find the easiest way to get drunk and fall asleep on a warm floor. For them — aside from Pirate — work is dishonorable.

The boy about to put down his card reminded me of Pilon who is always trying to take risks that favor him. He spends more energy, trying to think of easy ways to exploit people instead of getting a job. In stark contrast, the kid behind him holds a sack— a small and meaningful contrast that reminded me of Pirate’s honesty and willingness to work. Steinbeck’s images and emotions kept me in thought as I walked through Paris.

While walking along the Saint Martin Canal, and taking in the warm summer breeze I also saw a group of four friends across the water. They were drinking and laughing. As we reached a bridge I saw one of them plunge into the water from the top of the metal structure. People took quick glances as they ate their lunch and chatted with friends.

 Their muscles flexed as they pulled themselves up and out of the water. Their hair made them look like cholos from the 80's posted along a street in a Spanish speaking barrio. The guys passed their beer cans between them and talked loudly. 

A dog completed the pack. It would jump from the edge and eagerly chase them as they kept themselves afloat. One of them, probably its owner, pulled it up from its harness. They reminded me of Steinbeck’s characters- men who hadn’t fallen into the routine of work, rejected the accumulation of material goods, and although they led a solitary life they enjoyed each other’s company. I thought about the gang in the story, their unrestricted approach to imbibing red wine. It seemed as if time lasted forever for both the men across the canal and the men in the story.

Towards the end of the book, Danny’s homes had burned to the ground, culminating with him falling into a gulch. He’d completely squandered his inheritance and instead drank. The night of his fiesta fights break out and people get merry. Yet in his drunken stupor his fall ends in an untimely death.

The town is heartbroken and his friends are dejected. Although so close to the ocean, the town and the characters reflect the precarious relationship with nature. Just as a candle’s flame can start massive wildfires, excessive habits whether materialism or drunkenness if not controlled can lead to death. The real fire that the friends played with was excess wine. 

They find themselves without the right attire to go to the funeral, so they mourn from afar. Their rejection of common customs in order to indulge in their drunkenness comes at a cost, and like their unkept homes they have no control over the consequences of the fate that they chose. 

Nonetheless, watching the Parisian friends, and recalling the boys in the painting, I understood why Steinbeck treats their drunken camaraderie with such kindness — not as failure, but as a form of survival. Every day we take chances in the things we do, and the end can come in a flash. Yet it's with friends that we experience the best of times too, making life meaningful. Throughout my trip Steinbeck had me thinking that one doesn’t need to be versed in the best schools to appreciate those things. The memories we make should be with those that we love. Those that love us back will be there till the end, no matter how messy things might get. My trip to France blended perfectly with Steinbeck’s short novel.

Dreams from Bunker Hill: Fante's City and Mine - Book Review

Dreams from Bunker Hill: Fante’s City and Mine - Book Review

From Bunker Hill to Santa Monica: Reading Fante against my Los Angeles

By Armando Ortiz

John Fante’s Dreams from Bunker Hill tells the story of Arturo Bandini, a young writer scraping by in Bunker Hill, a neighborhood once bustling with life but now remembered mostly by name. As the story unfolds, Fante paints vivid portraits of Los Angeles, making the novel a gem for anyone interested in the city’s history and character. 

The book fits within the broader, often overlooked history of the Western United States at the turn of the 20th century. Born in Colorado to Italian immigrants, Arturo grew up poor, Catholic, and keenly aware of class divisions. In Los Angeles, he briefly finds success as a writer, yet discovers that the city’s opportunities come with their own rigid hierarchies. Life moves faster, the money is better, yet the drawbacks weigh heavily.

As Arturo weaves through the labyrinth of Los Angeles, Fante describes places instantly familiar to Angelinos. Reading his passages brought back memories of my own. I thought of the Hollywood Hills– the mountains that frame the city– and of Santa Monica, where life always seemed different. Terminal Island stirred another memory: my parents driving to Long Beach so we could fish. For Arturo, it becomes a retreat for writing. His blunder of a beach trip echoes the city’s restless coastline that stretches for miles. 

From the coast, Fante takes you to the city’s core. The Olympic Auditorium, where Arturo attends a wrestling match, was also where I saw my first concert--Megadeth. In the novel, Arturo is booed out of the building. Downtown Los Angeles, too, comes alive in his story, its boulevards crowded with people searching for a meal or a deal— much as they still are today.

Fante contrasts the wealth and free-flow lifestyle of Hollywood’s elite with the lives of Arturo’s former classmates back home. Arturo is consumed by a gnawing envy, shaped by his Colorado upbringing. Although talented and successful, he feels out of place everywhere. To others, he is always too ethnic, too poor and never quite enough. His struggle with identity and belonging is deeply relatable, reflecting the tension between society’s expectations and the choices we make to shape our lives.

In the end, Fante weaves a tale that is both a meditation and portrait, capturing not only one man’s search for belonging, but also the restless pulse of Los Angeles– a rhythm still beating today.

Detroit in the '70s: Elmore Leonard's City Primeval

Detroit in the ‘70s: Elmore Leonard’s City Primeval

By Armando Ortiz.

Elmore Leonard’s City Primeval was a good read that kept me engaged with its sharp dialogue and vivid descriptions of city life. The story is a page-turner, and Leonard never bogs you down with excessive setting, dialogue or investigations details. The writing flows easily, and I found myself moving through the pages at a brisk pace. What stood out most was the glimpse it offers into Detroit in the late 70s.

The villain, Clement Mansell, and Detective Raymond Cruz are a fascinating match-up. Mansell is unchained and unpredictable, his unstable temperament making him a danger even to those closest to him. If he feels wronged or envious, he takes it out on unsuspecting victims. Cruz on the other hand, is cool and collected. He gets along well with all his colleagues and knows how to handle himself, and carries a style that is reminiscent of western cowboy heroes– complete with a weapon of choice to match. Much of the suspense comes from the two circling each other across the city, trying to predict the next move, until Cruz and his colleagues find a way to bring things to a close.

The ending left me with mixed feelings, though it ultimately fits a character with a laundry list of crimes that justified his downfall. If you enjoy sharp writing, witty dialogue,gritty cityscapes and a touch of Western flair, this novel is worth picking up. It’s a strong example of Leonard’s ability to capture lawmen and outlaws while freezing a moment in time.

L.A. Mountains Call

 

L.A. Mountain’s Call

By Armando Ortiz

I walk the adobe road, this old mountain frozen,

sagebrush and baking dust engulf me at the turn.

L.A.’s mountainous slopes like weathered lemon peels,

fade into the afternoon haze.

I disappear into clay and chaparral

A figure in an impressionist landscape.

The portrait dissolves; the fireroad opens.

Deer forage, a yucca thirsts beneath oak shade— 

this is where I eternally wander.

Butterfly shadows circle—signs warn of rattlesnakes.

Nature bustles to its own pulse.

Slithering shadows of heat

shimmer across the coastal desert.

At a junction city scents join the trail, 

leading to barren heights and spectacular views,

where past and present landmarks remain.

At the summit, a hummingbird pauses, reminding me it too belongs.

Coyotes, forever jokesters, play hide-and-seek with the past.

As I begin my descent, a school of wild quail suddenly breaks the silence.

The male perches atop a branch, wearing a black top hat.

Strange characters live up here—a diorama of memories and life.

Everything alive before my eyes,

sweaty and accomplished, I reach my car.

Tomorrow the hike will fade, my legs will ache,

but already the mountains call me back.

Waves, Joan Sebastian, and Hemingway: A Central Coast Road Trip from L.A.

Waves, Joan Sebastian, and Hemingway:  A Central Coast Road Trip from L.A.

Reflections from a California road trip where literature and ballads collided in unexpected ways.

By Armando Ortiz

Last year, we drove to Carmel, about five hours north of Los Angeles. Our route took us along the I-5 north, cutting west on Highway 46 before stopping for lunch in Paso Robles. There, we found a small Mexican restaurant frequented by locals. We took it to go and enjoyed it at a nearby park. From there, we continued north on the 101 until we reached the coast. Our first stop was the 17–Mile Drive, a picturesque stretch of road that hugs the Pacific.

At one of the first turnouts, Huckleberry Hill, I learned that John Steinbeck, author of Tortilla Flats, Cannery Row and Grapes of Wrath, used to frequent this part of the coast. It’s easy to see why–the crashing waves, the cypress trees, the feeling of solitude. It’s the kind of place that invites introspection and inspiration. 

To bridge our musical taste–mine rooted in hip-hop and Yeny’s hard rock–we tuned in to a Spanish-language radio station. The playlist moved between old and new regional Mexican music. As the car wound through along the coast, we listened to tracks by Juan Gabriel, José José, Enrique Iglesias and Alejandra Guzman. The music felt both nostalgic and refreshing, almost like the cool onshore breeze that blew in through the open windows.

Driving through this short stretch of coast was magical–the pounding surf, the manicured golf lawns and elegant homes facing west. This was the perfect place to catch a sunset. We spent the day driving and stopping along the 17–Mile Drive, and later went to have dinner in Carmel. The spot we chose, The Hog’s Breath Inn, was once owned by Clint Eastwood. It turns out he had also been mayor of this small town.

While in Carmel, I heard music that I hadn’t given much thought to before–especially the songs of Joan Sebastian. The next day, we explored the town by foot, enjoying ice cream, window shopping, and other sweets. We ended our time there with lunch at Flaherty’s Seafood Grill and some homemade bread to take with us from Patisserie Boissiere Restaurant.

I’d probably heard five different tracks by Joan Sebastian during our trip. So, upon returning to L.A., I began diving into his catalog. At that time, I was reading Hemingway’s A Movable Feast. Somewhere along the way, the Spanish lyrics began to blend with the author’s voice on the page. 

I had just finished reading the part where Hemingway confesses to cheating on his wife. He describes the regret that followed, and how during the affair, he was conflicted. Right then, Joan Sebastian’s Lobo Domesticado began to play–a song about a man who can’t be tamed but wants to be domesticated by the woman he loves. 

Another song followed: Sé que no merezco tu perdón. It echoed the passage I’d just read, where the singer admits his faults were serious, his mistakes were too severe. He knows she’ll find someone new. Similarly, Hemingway, while regretful, finds a kind of relief that Hadley, his ex-wife, married someone finer than him. As that song ended, Me Gustas began–Sebastian singing about loving a woman so deeply that being with her erases time and reason. The country twang and crying fiddle paired beautifully with Hemingway’s sense of longing and loss.

I kept reading, and soon Hemingway was reflecting on Paris and his time in the winter mountains with Hadley. The tone of writing felt perfectly in sync with Sebastian’s songs. One scene, where Hemingway hikes up the mountain, made me feel like I’d climbed three thousand feet in fifteen minutes. The timing of the music I was listening to felt uncannily aligned with the words on the page. 

Eventually, the track switched to Oiga, a duet with Prisma, who sings of her fear of love after being hurt. Near the end of the book, Hemingway reflects on human behavior–how actions have consequences, how even our most secret choices shape our futures. But at least, he says, he’s glad Hadley found a better man. Some of those songs, which I kept returning to, echoed Hemingway’s own regrets and longing. 

Life unfolds in unexpected ways–and sometimes, the art we encounter along the way helps us understand it. Our trip to Carmel was peaceful: we had good meals, shared desserts, and listened to songs that still linger in my mind. But what stays with me most is how all these elements–the coast, the music, the drive–came together to make A Movable Feast not just a book I read, but something I felt in real time. A layered, living experience.

Tastes of Summer: A Memory of Strawberries

Tastes of Summer: A Memory of Strawberries

By Armando Ortiz

Every year, from April to June, strawberries come into season across California. You see them everywhere – roadside stands, corner markets, backyard gardens. Their scent, especially when driving through Oxnard, carries more than sweetness; for me it brings back places, people, and moments that linger longer than the fruit itself. This piece is a gathering of those memories – some simple, some strange, all tied together by the taste of strawberries.

Strawberries and cream oatmeal 

with strawberries and bananas.

Strawberries and Tajin 

on the camping trip.

A carton of strawberries handed to me

outside of Santa Cruz.

Dried strawberries under the dust 

at Burning Man.

Strawberries with Zinfandel.

Strawberry banana pancakes, 

with whipped cream and strawberry syrup.

Peanut butter

And strawberry jam on wheat bread.

The film, Wild Strawberries

Buying agua fresca de fresa in Ukiah.

Strawberry coconut ice cream 

and slow-churned chocolate ice cream topped with strawberries.

Ice cream sandwiches eaten on the side of the road along PCH.

French toast with strawberries, whipped cream, 

bananas, and strawberry syrup

My summer strawberry,

with flush red cheeks.

And smiles–simple pleasures 

live deep in our desires.