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.

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.

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.

Dragonflies: Reflections in Prose

Dragonflies

By Armando Ortiz

Live by bodies of water, 

natural ponds, manmade lakes,

hovering over the surface,

dancing by the water’s edge.

Their transparent wings, 

like cellulose propellers, 

glide and shimmer 

above marble fountains.

Free to roam as they please, 

they float effortlessly, 

perpetually in flight, 

delicate veins threading 

through gossamer wings.

Nature’s fabric clothes them 

in colors of their territory– 

metallic green turning violet chrome, 

pastel lavender fading to gray, 

bright yellow tails igniting 

into red tiger stripes.

Where there is one, 

there are others, 

flitting near water, 

a beauty to behold, 

a life to ponder.

Japan, shaped like a dragonfly, 

calls them tombo— 

keepers of the sky, 

decorations of flight.

Anza-Borrego State Park: Road trip and Camping

Anza-Borrego State Park: Road trip and Camping

By Armando Ortiz

Introduction to Area and Road Trip

Anza-Borrego State Park lies in Southern California’s central interior, bordered by Ocotillo to the south near the Mexican border, Julian and Ramona to the west, the Salton Sea to the east, and the Palomar Mountains to the north. Once submerged under water, this region holds evidence of human presence dating back thousands of years.

The best time to visit is in Spring or Fall, though Winter can also be pleasant. Summers, however, bring intense heat. From downtown Los Angeles the drive takes about four hours, including potentially heavy traffic on I-15 South. My preferred route from Temecula winds through diverse landscapes, from chaparral to desert vistas, offering a peaceful escape from the busier highways.

Background of Anza Borrego

For centuries, Indigenous groups lived in this region, leaving behind mortar sites used to process seeds like juniper berries, and agave. The Kumeyaay are the group most closely associated with the area, though others, such as the Cahuilla, traveled here seasonally. The park takes its name from Juan de Anza, who traveled and explored the area in the 1700s, as he was heading northwest into California’s interior. Today, the desert landscape attracts permanent residents and visitors alike from across Southern California, drawn by its stark beauty and natural wonders. 

Activities in Anza-Borrego

Hiking is popular in and around the park, best enjoyed during the cooler months of winter and spring. Summers can be dangerous due to the extreme heat. Trails vary in difficulty; some are accessible by sedan, while others require high-clearance, four wheel drive vehicles. Off-roading is another common pastime- you’ll often see caravans of Jeeps, Tacomas and 4Runners, as well as campers being hauled by full size trucks.

Ancient Native American sites can be reached by combining hiking and off-roading. An all-wheel drive vehicle can shorten hikes, but most sites are accessible via trails of up to two miles. The park is also known for its unique iron sculptures, scattered across the desert landscape around the town of Borrego Springs. These artworks emerge on the horizon, though reaching some may require navigating unmarked trails to reach. The night turns magical as you observe the Milky Way stretching across the sky. 

Ending and review

Anza Borrego feels less desolate as other California desert parks, thanks to its nearby eateries and hotels. To fully enjoy its unique offerings, plan an overnight stay- either camping or at a local hotel. The landscape features agave, ocotillos, barrel cacti, and desert palm give it a distinct charm. Spring, especially after a wet season, is another excellent time to visit.

On our way home, we often stop in Julian, CA, a charming mountain town known for its apple pies, really good burgers, and rustic ambiance. Located at higher elevation, Julian offers a cool, green contrast to the desert’s stark beauty, with pine and oak forests. 

Drive along Highway 78 to Julian, the scenery transforms from barren, rocky mountains dotted with cactus to chaparral, then to lush woodlands. The sudden transition highlights the unique microclimates of the area, making Julian feel like a cool retreat after the desert’s intensity. 

John Steinbeck's The Grapes of Wrath: Book Review and Reflections

John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath: Book Review and Reflections

By Armando Ortiz

Is the migration of people a phenomenon that exists during one generation or is it something that has taken place hundreds of times for thousands of years? John Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath, published in 1939, captures the plight of Oklahoma farmers who lost their lands during the Great Depression. Steinbeck’s novel is one of the best novels I’ve read recently, resonating deeply with current migration issues as it explores the hardships faced by people displaced from their homes. 

I started reading Steinbeck’s novel a week before leaving for Peru and was completely engrossed by the plot. Once in Peru, the parallels between the Joad daily’s journey and the struggles of families migrating to the United States today became strikingly clear. This resemblance deepened my engagement with Steinbeck’s portrayal of resilience in the face of displacement. This review not only examines the novel but also reflects on its relevance on today’s migrants to the U.S.

The novel centers on the Joad family, particularly Tom Joad, as they struggle to survive in a rapidly changing world. In addition to chronicling the experiences that his characters go through he also describes the forces of nature over the American Southwest. The Joad family’s deep connection to their land is tested by unforgiving nature and relentless economic forces. During the Dust Bowl- a devastating drought in the mid-1930s Midwest- they struggle to maintain their home, only to be uprooted by banks prioritizing profit over people.

The banks and business interests of their property are not concerned for the wellbeing of people there. Locals in the countryside continue to lose their land to mechanized agriculture and are left with two options: try to get employed by those businesses or move somewhere else. The parcels lost by the families are the places they’ve called home for at least the last three generations. The uprooted family is forced to make tough decisions that will take them to California. 

The Joad family’s deep connection to their land mirrors the universal bond that many have with the earth- a bond often cut by forces beyond their control. As their fight against the banks becomes futile, this connection becomes a painful memory, pushing them toward a new hope in California. During my trek on the Inca Trail in Peru, a guide spoke of the spiritual connections people have with the earth, a sentiment that echoes in Steinbeck’s portrayal of Jim Casy and the Joad’s family’s bond to their land.

Ultimately, the Joad family abandons their fight against the banks and sets off for California, lured by pamphlets promising plentiful farming jobs and the hope of prosperity. For the Joads, the food, grapes and oranges, and the possibility of affording a home together draws them West. 

As the Joads journey west, their story eerily parallels the experiences of many Latin American migrants heading to the U.S. today, driven by similar hopes and hardships. People who decide to head North to where the myth of finding pennies on the ground or picking up used televisions on the corners is alive. 

Tragedy soon follows the Joads westward: their dog is killed, Grandpa Joad dies and is buried by the roadside, and eventually, Grandma Joad passes away. The family’s journey is marked by loss and abandonment, reflecting the harsh realities of displacement. Little by little the family loses members, and they abandon their material possessions.

The trials endured by the Joad family- loss, displacement, and the struggle for survival- are not relics of the past but living realities faced by countless migrants today. These scenes are poignantly mirrored today by the perilous journeys of migrants from South America to the U.S., who face immense hardships along routes like the Darien Gap. In South America, I witnessed first hand the strength of family and community ties, echoing the Joads’ experience of unity and loss. 

Just as Oklahoma served as a departure point for Dust Bowl migrants, towns in Colombia act as staging areas for those embarking on the perilous journey through the Darien Gap. Like many migrant families, the Joads family begin their journey united, but overtime, their cohesion erodes under the weight of tragedy and hardships.

In the midst of their journey, families like the Joads, are sadly separated by tragedy or necessity. Blood ties are not as strong as they once were. By watching videos and reading about the Darien Gap one learns that people begin to lighten their load once the weather, and terrain begin to take a toll on their bodies. Familial unity either becomes stronger or weakens. People get swept away by the rivers or get robbed by locals. The worst experience being one survivor of a five person family unit making it to the Panamanian refugee camp. 

Tragically, as Steinbeck illustrates, the hope of a  new beginning often demands a baptism of suffering. The renewal that comes with their move West has strings attached. Just as the Joad family faced discrimination, exploitation, and verbal abuse by the locals. Today there are politicians that blame our nation’s ills on illegal immigrants and asylum seekers. These new immigrants have become the new scapegoats for all that is bad in the country. 

Despite facing oppression from legal systems, neighbors and religious groups, the Joad family perseveres. They quickly adapt to their way of life and what keeps them moving forward is having a warm meal, but also a place to call their own. It is in their desperation, like immigrants today, where they find the strength to keep moving forward. 

Dispossessed and driven by necessity, today’s migrants, like the Joads, embody humanity at its rawest. Steinbeck’s novel compels us to recognize the enduring struggles of the poor and dispossessed, highlighting the shared human experience of seeking a better life amidst adversity.

Though written over 80 years ago, Steinbeck’s The Grapes of Wrath remains a timeless exploration of forced migration and the universal quest for a better life. It shows us that there will always be a reason why people decide to put their lives at risk as they hold on to promises that are only that and that along the way they will have to find new ways to adapt and push forward towards a new and better life.