The Things Left Behind: Overlanding Carrizo Plain and Prewitt Ridge

The Things Left Behind: Overlanding Carrizo Plain and Prewitt Ridge

By Armando Ortiz

This late March, we took a weekend trip to Carrizo Plain National Monument and drove to Big Sur to take a road up to Prewitt Ridge. The journey was enjoyable, but it also left me thinking about the people who had passed through these places long before us.

We left Los Angeles, taking I-5 north all the way up to Highway 166. In Maricopa we filled up on gas, food and firewood. Arriving at Carrizo Plain, the landscape was opposite of what it had been during our January visit. A series of storms had passed through then, leaving the road muddy, and the hills lush green. We visited Painted Rock, whose pictographs made the site feel less like an outcrop and more like a sacred chapel. This time the flowers had faded, the grass was turning gold, and we planned to explore deeper into the monument.

Countless tiny painted lady butterflies fluttered and zigzagged along the edge of the road. The rising dust behind the truck created a huge adobe plume. We arrived at Selby Campground to find it packed, and the only spot we found was littered with evidence of those who had stayed before us. The scattered artifacts included unfinished chicken wings, pistachio shells and fruit peels. A half full champagne bottle lay beside the brush. For a moment I wondered what people thousands of years ago left behind– milled grains, paint containers, water jugs or clay shards. It was too much to clean and the cell phone connection was a bit precarious. We turned back. On Caliente Mountain Road we stopped at a place we had visited on our last trip. This time we arrived earlier, the weather was warmer, and there was more daylight. 

We pulled out our hiking gear and headed to a cluster of weathered boulders that looked promising for signs of earlier visitors- like mortars, petroglyphs or pictographs. She didn’t feel safe, and turned around to wait for me in the truck. The trail I followed had become visible after a late Summer fire swept through the area a few months earlier. Broken sea-green glass and empty aluminum cans littered the trail. Last time, I’d found the weathered backbone of a deer. Going down the trail was exciting, though not without caution. 

The boulders were surrounded with knee high grass. I hiked down and explored one of the boulders. The thought of ticks and snakes made me walk cautiously. Climbing around the boulder, I discovered traces of pictographs tucked into an alcove a few feet above the ground, and immediately found myself wondering what those symbols once meant. To a person today, the eroding images might just be drawings or vandalism, but to the people that once walked through here and called it home it might have meant something deeper. I stood before a place shaped by people whose purposes I could only guess at. Like them, I was merely passing through. I climbed back wondering what the symbols once meant to them. We continued our ascent on our overlanding expedition. 

We kept climbing past scattered campers before deciding to stop at a turn out. The Caliente Mountain peaks were behind us and before us were the ridges of the Temblor Mountains on the other side of the great Carrizo Plain valley. The hills everywhere were becoming golden tan with patches of green. The wind was just right. Beneath a juniper’s shade we ate lunch while she caught up with her family and I finished Elmore Leonard’s Out of Sight. After a while we pitched our tent, and lit a fire on the portable pit. We saw the constellations emerge from the night, and marveled at the sky till we were too tired.

These are the moments that make sleeping outdoors memorable. We rose early and watched the first rays of sunlight pierce the distant Temblor Mountains, their warm glow gradually bringing colors and shadows into focus across a landscape that stretched far beyond the horizon.

In the distance, a line of hikers wound across the mountainside before coiling in a circle. From afar it almost looked like prayer. As we packed up cars began passing by. The winds were calm so clouds of dust were almost nonexistent.

After oatmeal and hot coffee, we followed the dirt road back to Soda Lake Road and headed north to Highway 58. Our next destination was Prewitt Ridge – a coastal mountain top. We crossed undulating hills decorated with old oaks and rows of vineyards. We stopped at Paso Robles to refuel and stock up on snacks. Good music and the chaparral landscape gave the drive classic California road trip vibes.

From Paso Robles we climbed through Fort Hunter Leggett and into the Santa Lucia Range. Along the way, we stopped to take pictures and scout campsites for a future visit. Oak groves eventually gave way to a sun-baked scenery of burned pines and sycamores before we reached the turnoff to Prewitt Ridge.

The road wound through a blackened landscape before opening onto a mountain top crowned with a few weathered and gnarled trees. This was the place I had imagined reaching for years, long before I ever bought my truck. A puffy white blanket of fog covered the coast. Above it, the sun was bright, and the coastal breeze nearly perfect.

We ate lunch overlooking the coast as waves crashed below and trucks and SUVs came and went. Some travelers lingered to camp while others stopped only long enough for a photograph. The place felt larger–and more magical than it ever appeared in pictures. After we finished we drove back to the main road. Once down the mountain it was all coastal driving.

As we approached PCH, a layer of grey mist engulfed us, transforming the coastline into something that resembled a Chinese ink painting by Zhang Daqian. Through the fog we occasionally heard the crash of waves. A single coastal cypress stood nearby, an ancient warrior in a long battle against wind and time. Following the curves we drove by Plaskett Creek. A bit past Piedras Blancas Lighthouse we stopped to admire elephant seals who were sunbathing. By evening we reached Moonstone Beach and settled for the night.

Despite lasting two nights, the trip felt far larger than its time suggested. The next morning we walked all along the Moonstone Beach boardwalk where we saw pelicans glide over waves, while seagulls rested on island rocks. Next we explored Fiscalini Ranch Preserve where we discovered more evidence of those who lived here long before us. Mortar rocks with million dollar views of the ocean and coast lay exposed among the grass. I thought of the people that had walked this land long before we did and wondered how far they walked before reaching their place of sleep. Standing there among the mortar rocks, the coast, the mountains, the human artifacts, and even the dust trails behind passing trucks all felt temporary.

A Calendar in the Rock: Road-trip to Sedona

A Calendar in the Rock: Road-trip to Sedona

By Armando Ortiz

We left Los Angeles thinking Sedona would be good for hikes and photographs. Red rock formations. Winter light. Trails that look romantic even before you adjust the colors on your phone. 

That was the plan — make Sedona our base and branch out. On a map, everything feels close. In the desert, distance widens. Hours stretch. Roads thin out. A day can disappear behind a windshield.

So we narrowed the circle. We would stay with Sedona. Let it be enough.

We arrived the first week of January. Rain had passed through the night before, and the air carried that cold clarity that follows a desert storm. The red earth looked darker than it does in photographs. The silence did not feel empty. It felt layered.

At Palatki, cliff dwellings rest inside sandstone walls as if they grew there. Pictographs remain — figures, markings, a silhouette that held my attention longer than I expected. I found myself wondering who it represented. The not knowing felt appropriate.

But it was at the Crane Petroglyph site where something shifted. 

The ranger pointed to a series of etched markings along the cliff wall. At first they looked like many of the others — lines, shapes, fragments of intention. Then he explained that some archaeologists believe they functioned as a calendar. A way of tracking seasons. Movement. Planting cycles.

He said it plainly. Not as a grand claim. Just as possibility.

I stood there looking at the stone differently.

A calendar is not decoration. It is attention stretched across years. It is someone watching the sun closely enough to notice patterns, and patient enough to record them. It requires repetition. It requires memory.

On the walk back, we talked about it — about seasons, about how much observation it would take to live that closely with land and sky. The conversation was easy. But something in me had gone quieter. 

We use the word primitive too easily.

The ranger hadn’t argued that point directly, but the idea hovered there. Ancient becomes simple. Simple becomes inferior. Entire civilizations are reduced to survival stories.

Yet what I had just seen was study. Deliberate marking. Knowledge fixed in stone.

The next day, driving north toward Wupatki National Monument, the land widened into lava fields and open sky. In the background, the ever-present San Francisco Peaks rose like silent beings. The pueblos rise there from volcanic soil in a landscape of extremes — scorching summers, freezing winters, little water, relentless wind. Stone construction was not accidental; it was intelligent. It held heat. It endured. It answered the climate.

We admire the terraces of China and the agricultural engineering of the Inca Empire in Peru. We call those remarkable adaptations to demanding landscapes. Here too, there are traces of altered terrain and cultivated maize – signs of people working carefully with soil, shadow, and season.

At Walnut Canyon National Monument, homes carved into limestone cliffs stretch along what is now called the Island Trail. One dwelling becomes several. Several become many. What first appears isolated reveals itself as community. I imagined late afternoon settling into the canyon – smoke rising gently, hovering at the edge of the plateau, voices carrying across stone, the ordinary rhythm of preparing a meal, a child crying at a distance.

The ordinary is what endures. 

What unsettled me was not the age of these places. It was the quiet evidence of attention — architectural, agricultural, communal – embedded in them.

Sedona did not become a launching point for somewhere else. It became a place that made me slow down long enough to reconsider a word I had rarely questioned. 

We arrived looking for scenery.

We left still thinking.

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.

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.

Seeing the Unseen: My Journey with Dragonflies

 Seeing the Unseen: My Journey with Dragonflies

By Armando Ortiz

Life presents us with patterns of interconnectedness, whether we choose to see them or not. Some feel random, but in hindsight, they form a web of meaning. As humans, we weave significance into the things around us, creating symbolism from what appears to be chance. It can be playful or overwhelming. Ultimately, we decide how to process it.

In the early 2000’s I spent time studying in South Korea and China. After completing my graduate studies, and no longer able to continue studying Mandarin, I moved on to other ventures. I spent some time teaching English in South Korea before using my savings to start a business back in Los Angeles. My idea was simple: people in the U.S. would buy East Asian art books.

From 2007 to 2011, I traveled frequently between the U.S. and China, also visiting South Korea and Japan in search of books. At the peak of my business, I traveled to China at least once or twice a year. I drove to many parts of the Western and Midwest regions of the U.S., met many artists, and saw many different places. I was fortunate.

Most of my books came from Tianjin. I chose the city simply by browsing a Beijing bookstore and gravitating toward a particular book. The publisher that resonated with me was based there– about 70 miles from the capital, roughly the same distance as a drive from Los Angeles to Ventura. I remember my first trip: all I had was an address and a printed map. The beginning of my business was more of an adventure.

This reflection is less about my business and more about the randomness of interconnected moments - the meanings we attach to things, in this case, dragonflies. 

While in Tianjin, on my way to the bank with a publishing company secretary, I spotted a dead dragonfly on the sidewalk. I picked it up and examined it. Its body shimmered metallic green and blue, catching the sunlight. Its transparent wings had disintegrated, leaving only delicate filaments– traces of its former flight.

A few days later, in Beijing, I checked into my room and rested. Suddenly, a dragonfly landed on the outer edge of the air conditioner. It lingered there and died. The heat that day was intense. I opened the window and saw its iridescent body up close. I left it where it was but felt oddly lucky to have noticed it.

Two weeks after returning to Los Angeles, I encountered another dead dragonfly on Wilshire Boulevard, near a palm tree. As before, I picked it up, examined it, then returned it to where I’d found it. This one wasn’t metallic like the ones in China– it had muted shades of purple and gray, with hints of sage. There was no hesitation in picking it up; it felt natural, as if I was meant to find them.

Curious, I looked up dragonflies but didn’t research deeply. I learned they mostly live near water and that thousands of species exist. 

Months later, after summer had passed, I found myself in Tucson, Arizona. Taking a break from selling books, I visited a weekend arts festival. There, I came across an artist named Magdalena Nowacka. Her paper cutout artwork, inspired by Native American religions, was intricate and thoughtful. As I browsed through her collection, I found an affordable piece– a card with a dragonfly at its center. It immediately brought back memories of my recent encounters.

The design was inspired by Japanese motifs. That evening, I researched Japanese symbolism and learned that many believe Japan, when viewed on a map, resembles a dragonfly. The insect is also called the victory insect because of its agility, vibrant colors, and appetite for mosquitoes. I jotted these findings down in my notebook, along with my growing list of connections.

Later, my niece asked if I had ever written a poem about dragonflies. She told me that she had a toy dragonfly and wanted to read something I had written on the subject. Her question caught me off guard– I had never considered writing about them before.

Then, as if the universe had nudged me again, a friend invited me to a birthday party at a venue called The Dragonfly. Inside, a massive dragonfly sculpture loomed over the stage. I took it as a sign. I needed to gather these experiences and make something of them.

In time, I learned about damselflies, their smaller and more delicate relatives. I also discovered that my home state has 77 recorded species– 47 dragonflies and 29 damselflies. The most common? The Flame Skimmer.

The connections continue. On a weekend hike, I spotted dragon flies hovering at the top of a ridge, far from any water. Had the wind carried them from Burbank to this pass, where mosquitos might have gathered? I couldn’t say. But I had already begun the process of stringing these moments together, and I was enjoying it. 

That’s the beauty of story telling– how one thing can lead to another, creating patterns where none seemed to exist. The key is to draw the reader into your world; your way of seeing.

The more I noticed dragonflies, the more they seemed to notice me. Maybe it’s time I finally write that poem.