Antelope Valley California Poppy Reserve: Road Trips from Los Angeles

Antelope Valley California Poppy Reserve: A Day Trip

by Armando Ortiz

   I've been to the Antelope Valley California Poppy Reserve State Natural Reserve many times, especially during Spring. The drive to this place is great and you have two options. Both ways of getting there from L.A. will take you through landscapes a bit different than the usual LA sights. You will be driving through the eastern edge of the Simi Hills and the western end of the Angeles National Forest mountains. 

First option to get there is via Highway 14 north, by taking the Interstate 5 north, then once you’ve passed San Fernando Valley you get on the 14 north all the way to Lancaster where you will exit Avenue I. Next, you will make a left and stay on that street till you join Lancaster Road. This route is the fastest and the most direct and you mostly get to see the western end of the Angeles Crest mountains. As you are driving north you can enjoy looking at the slanted rock formations that can be seen to the left-  Vasquez Rocks, whose name is taken from L.A.’s historic bandit - Tiburcio Vasquez.

The second option is a bit slower but the drive too is scenic and different. From L.A. you take Interstate 5 north and drive to the Magic Mountain area. You exit on Newhall Ranch, make a quick right, and drive past the rodeo grounds that will be on your right side. Then you will make a left on Copper Hill Drive and drive till you reach San Francisquito Canyon Road. Here you will make a left and head north for about 15 to 20 minutes, here you see drive through canyons, oak groves and see lingering signs of ranch life, till you merge with Elizabeth Lake Road, where you will make a left, and soon you will reach Munz Ranch Road where you will turn right. Depending on the year's rain and your time of visit, the hills in these areas might be splashed with the colors of wild desert flowers. The road winds its way through rolling grassy hills that will be peppered with tangerine colors, purple lupines and varying yellow hues. 

You pay to enter the Poppy Reserve and it is well worth the price. In the reserve there are picnic benches near the front, but you can also take a break in your car. There are defined trails that are easy to walk on. There might be one or two sections throughout the site that might get intense for a few meters. There is also a visitor center where you can purchase the typical souvenirs found in such places. It's worth going inside and checking out unique things related to the high desert, like books and hats. If you do decide to hike one of the trails make sure to take some water and a lunch. There are benches along the trails where you can sit and enjoy the views and reach into your bag and enjoy a snack. For a moment you can be transported to the past, when these flowers carpeted not only this area, but extended and covered all of the high desert and even all of Los Angeles. 

If you are on a budget you can pull off the main road where there is a decent amount of blossoms and enjoy the sights. Sometimes parking along the road can be intense, because many people visit this section of Los Anglees during the Spring, especially when there has been plenty of rain. Nevertheless, remind yourself that you are there too see a Spring blooms, and that’s what others are doing too, and believe it or not many people in the city ever drive this far to see something so unique.There are off road trails where you can enjoy the poppy fields, but you have to make sure your car is capable of doing light off-roading as well.

The best time to visit is during the Spring. Timing your visit will depend on how well you keep track of the rainfall in the deserts. Usually if it has been a wet year in Los Angeles you can rest assured that there will be poppies blooming in spring. It is all a matter of monitoring the rain fall, and also the weather because just as it can be a rainy season, hot weather the next week can mean that there will be a short blooming season. In addition, poppies are one of many wildflowers that bloom during the Spring, and these blooms can come in waves. Meaning, before poppies blossom there might be a blooming of desert lupines, goldfields, painted brush, and many others.

Afternoon in Kashgar

Kashgar Afternoon

by Armando Ortiz

On my first visit to Kashgar, which is in the Xinjiang Province of China back in the summer of 2002, I was taken to a restaurant by a local foreigner whom I had met that week that had experience living in Western China. He’d been staying next door to me, and the Joni Mitchell music he kept playing he piqued my interest. My year long study program in Seoul, South Korea at Yonsei University was over and I wanted to visit China again before returning home. I was there just being a tourist, wandering, the winds of interest and curiosity had settled me on this western ground. I was told we were going to have a local specialty, a roasted chicken. Never once was I able to have that dish ever again. The dish had been prepared in the kitchen, of course, and cooked in a tandori like oven. It was delicious along with some local nan, a huge tortilla like bread. The chicken was crispy to the bit and the salty oiliness mixed well with the nan. We might have had tea to drink but at this point I no longer remember. When I do remember from that lunch was the spectacle that we were about to encounter on leaving the restaurant.

We talked about travels throughout the country and other adventures. Nonetheless, it was time to go and we paid our bill. Hardly a cent was laid on the table and we walked out full and content. As we were walking to the door something like a buzz or a hum could be heard. A small crowd was gathering near the restaurant we had just exited. It was sunny outside so the transition from the small diner to the outside was like going into a different world. All of a sudden I could hear the strumming of what sounded like the plucking of a rockabilly bass, but not as low and heavy as that. It was very fast, and gentle, almost reminding me of the song that John Travolta and Emma Thurman danced in the middle of the diner. 

The musician playing was sunweathered. His clothes were mostly a western styled suit, which might have been a faded black or a used blue. He’d been doing this for years, it appeared. He looked as if he could have been sipping coffee under the noon light, maybe smoking a stogie somewhere in the middle of the American southwest waiting for the sun to set. He wore a square cap, with simple brocade loops that seemed to house fine Turkic lettering, his face looked calm, shoulders were square not round like the city folk in LA. Could he have been staring off into space? Could he have been the sitting model for a buddha statue back in the day when Buddhism spread throughout the Tarim Basin, with half closed eyes staring at the crowd? Maybe he’d smoked some hash before this impromptu performance? 

The music, the rhythmic strumming and twang that I heard immediately took us to the ground of people that surrounded the aged man. It felt like the crowd parted as we approached the bard. He just kept at it, his fingers long, wrinkled and dexterous, kept dancing and jumping from the top of the next of the banjo like instruments to the middle of the neck. It was almost like a dream, and maybe it was because I didn’t take a photo, and I didn't ask who the person putting on the street show was, but I still remember the music and the scene.

It might have lasted 10-15 minutes at most, but it is still a memory that sorta floats around when I think of my travels to that distant province and to its edge and fringe where 8-track players, and old Motorola phones were being sold. Despite the steady reach of technology, people here still circled around a troubadour, listened, admired and enjoyed some live music. Even though, sometimes we believe that we are different from others, in reality we all love some good live music, whether it be by someone performing for donations or playing at a sold out concert at the Hollywood Bowl. The band could be playing in front of a church audience or at a speakeasy. We all enjoy good live music, but what is most surprising is how music seems to have this hypnotic effect on people wherever they may be on this earth.

On My Way to Tashkurgan

On My Way to Tashkurgan

by Armando Ortiz

On my second trip to Xinjiang, China, back in 2005, I found myself in a taxi on my way to Tashkurgan, the farthest western point I’d ever reached in China. Finding a bus ticket that morning was tough, so I decided to split the ride with some locals and take a taxi. There were three of us that sat in that car that day: a Uyghur lady sitting front passenger, on her way to visit her boyfriend who was stationed in a military garrison, and a Tajik man man in the back next to me, returning home after studying agriculture in Shanghai. He was a long way from school, but nearing his hometown. 

As we all piled into the taxi, there was enough space for everyone, and the music playing felt exotic than familiar to me. I couldn’t help but notice that the road, supposed to be the Karakoram highway, was a two lane road at that time. A few years ago it had only been a single lane road, showcasing China’s transformation even in its frontiers. The road stretched like electric tape on the surface the high altitude desert land, located at the edge of the Himalayan range on the Pamir plateau.This part of China seemed devoid of life, and yet it is the origins of water for many civilizations of Asia, with some streams flowing south to India and others north to China. 

After a few hours of riding, we suddenly approached a scene that now feels strangely familiar, reminiscent of experiences I would later have in the States. It looked like a bus had pulled over, maybe it was picking up passengers. The taxi started to slow down, shifting gears, and the zoom of the engine reverberated through the seats of the vehicle. We pulled to the opposite side of the road, coming to a stop parallel to the bus, creating a cloud of dust. Everyone quickly poured out of the car, as we all thought that there was damage to the back axle of the bus. Replacements were still a few days or hours away, leaving the middle aged men, the driver, and their assistant with no choice but to wait.

As I scanned the desolate landscape, I initially mistook discarded pieces of watermelon for slices of pizza on the ground. Only the cheese appeared to have been consumed, leaving behind layers of tomato sauce and crust. Upon closer inspection, I realized it was watermelon. As the taxi driver engaged in small talk with the bus driver,  he pulled out two watermelons from the bus and naan bread. His assistant, pulling a knife he had concealed from his back, skillfully began cutting into the fruit, passing slices of fleshy red meat to everyone. 

Meanwhile, the taxi driver reached into a green grocery bag and pulled out a few wheels of bread and broke off big chunks of dried pita-like bread, handing a piece to each of us. They showed me how to enjoy this snack combination: taking a bite of the bread first, followed by a bite of the fruit. It felt like participating in a traditional ceremony of generosity. Amidst the stranded bus workers on this high in the mesa, we shared the snacks, and the combination of dry naan with crunchy juicy melon revitalized our spirits. Both satisfaction and a refreshing feeling washed over me. The guys waiting for the spare part to arrive would be fine. The taxi driver signaled for us to hop back into the car and continue our journey. 

Our next stop was a military checkpoint. Once we stopped, the Uyghur lady disembarked and walked towards a tall, burly man wearing military fatigues. Like a traditional Mongolian wrestler, he met her half way and welcomed her. She kept walking, and he nimbly placed his arm around her neck, guiding her towards the shaded office. Next, it was the Tajik man’s turn. Wearing jeans and a blue cotton jacket, he spoke Mandarin with a slight foreign accent, yet his fluency was on point. With his reddish hair and unconventional appearance, he stood out among the masses of China. Yet he was Chinese too, and his tribe has been living in those mountains for millennia. He bid us farewell at the outskirts of town before we entered the town center, where I ended up staying the night.

Gumball Machines: Sketches of Los Angeles

 Gumball Machines

by Armando Ortiz

Odracir wasn’t your common comedian, living a simple life of books, music and food, he spent most of his mornings, afternoons and evenings doing just that. He considered himself an artist, but not your usual run of the mill artist, no he thought that what he did was unique and more enigmatic of what a real artist did. After graduating university, and spending some time working in the corporate world he discovered that the competition and cut throat environment didn’t suit his easy going nature, and in fact to some extent had corrupted the easiness with a bit of cynicism. He decided to quit his job, and go out onto the world alone, free. All he had was his freedom and a clever mind to make a living on this earth.

The money he made hadn’t really dented the personality that he’d developed growing up. He’d lived in various parts of Los Angeles, mostly living in studio apartments with his parents and younger brother, so when he’d been offered his first employment contract he was shocked at the amount of money he’d be making, which was double of what his father made a year. He kept living with his parents for some time and then ended up moving to a studio across the hall from where they lived. Most of the money he made was spent in sending his parents to Central America on vacation and sending them to Mexico to visit some of the famous sites there. All along he also got into the business of buying gumball machines. He found this particular type of business very intriguing, and required some work, but not much. He’d started off with two gumball machines that he’d bought at a thrift store along Pico boulevard. The old looking machine brought back child memories that he’d long forgotten, of the simple and fun days, where all one needed was ten cents to satisfy a sugar craving. 

He’d been on one of his daily walks, and rarely paid attention to what was going on inside all the mom and pop stores that peppered the Bizantine - Latino Quarter of Los Angeles. It was a nice name to a place that was mostly made up of recently arrived Central Americans, and South of the border Southern Mexicans that started to arrive in Los Angeles en masse after the mid-1990s. That day though as he was walking and listening to his music he saw two old gumball machines. They were still that candy red that brought back old memories, but he could see the different layers that reached the gray galvanized steel that covered the gum ball machine. He stopped, squatting down, he could see all the detail on the lever that one turned and the different mechanical pieces that could barely be seen in the small opening that was made available when one slightly turned the handle clockwise. The action itself immediately took him back to when he’d buy candy from the old store on Rampart and Beverly, when his mother would take him to do some grocery shopping. The lever was cold, and the red paint was smooth like a clean ceramic plate. There was a magical aura to the machines, and it only became more intense when he saw the “For Sale” sign attached right up the opening where one got their candy. 

The day he walked into his parents apartment with the gum ball machine everyone was quite taken back. What would they do with a gum ball machine? Pay ten cents to get a ball of gum from that contraption? Yes, that is exactly what Pyraneo thought, the idea was for the gumball machine to act like a quasi piggy bank and after a while he’d use the money from it to buy different candies. In the process of learning how to extract the money from the machines and put the candy inside he saw that the machine components were quite simple and soon realized that he also had a knack at refurbishing them, since all that was required was to place an order for the parts from the company phone number that was inside of the machines.

It wasn’t long before when he got the idea that he could make a steady income with the machines, so he asked the owner of the building where they lived if he could place the gum ball machines outside the building. Of course the owner, knowing that they’d lived in the building for about eight years, and had paid their rent on time ever since moving there, didn’t think twice to give him the ok. He soon discovered that it wasn’t a bad thing, and the profit margin for what was invested was pretty good. Gumballs had an usually long shelf life, and nobody really paid attention to them, except for kids, and as long as they were in a shaded area there was not much to worry about except for the occasional repairs.

He kept working for the company, slowly saving his money, and enjoying his life having nice dinners in cevicherias- he’d take his parents to San Pedro where they ate spicy crayfish and fish tacos. At that time the pair of gum ball machines were pulling in 10 dollars a week, and he was spending about a dollar and a half in gum. He began to look into buying another set of machines and soon discovered that he could buy them used from a factory in Downtown Los Angeles where scrap metal was bought and sold. Soon afterwards the two that he’d started off with had turned into five, and the kids kept buying and buying the ten cent candies. Soon he was asking Laundromat store owners for permission to set up gumball machines, which they duly agreed since there was no harm in having some sell ten cent candies. 

After some time something happened to him. He let the worm of desire and want get the better of him and he began to tinker with the machines trying to figure out ways to limit the amount of candy that was given out. In the process of trying to control the flow of his goods he found that there was a mechanism where the machine would take the money, but it wouldn’t give gum or candy, and it only worked after the second time. This left him wondering. Wondering of the possibilities. What he was making now was 50 dollars a week, but with this unsuspecting error he could make 100. 

He began to tinker with the machines, altering the workings of the first two he’d bought. He hadn’t thought about where the money really was coming from. He only thought about the jump in his profits and comedic scenes that would soon be unfolding under his window, when kids putting their coins inside the machine, expecting to get some sugar coated goodie, would receive a disappointing surprise. He relished the thought and the first day that he used his altered machines, which if you recall, were placed outside the building where he lived, he kept looking outside of his window and peering down to see the first kid that would fall for the trap. 

The first kid to fall for the con was not yet five and had some bugger running down his nose. He wore some brown slacks, and a green shirt that read, Mexico 86. The kid put the coin inside, turned the lever, and expecting for something to roll out cupped his right hand under the exit chamber, but nothing happened. The kid tried turning the lever again, but there was no coin, so it just got stuck. He opened the lid of the exit chamber and with his hand slapped the gumball machine, but the only thing that could be heard were the gumballs rattling sound as they bounced off the glass that contained them. The kid once again opened the old aluminum lid from the round chamber hoping for a gum to freely fall, but nothing happened. He ran around the corner, and a few moments later returned with a new coin. This time the machine did give him some gum and now his pace significantly slowed down, as if content. For weeks no one said anything, which surprised him more than worried making him wonder how many kids lived in the neighborhood. Nevertheless, the day came when he received the first phone call.

Summer's End

Summer's End

by Armando Ortiz

Towards summer's end

nearing the harvest moon

sitting in the time of dreams

we broke bread and made memories

giving thanks and respect to those we love

Towards summer's end

approaching the Autumn moon

within realms of dreams

the sun arose and stars cleared

night came to an end

and we vanished into the wind.

Wading in Water

Wading in Water

by Armando Ortiz

wading in water

along Onion Valley trail

where melting droplets

in nature's weight flows

the white noise of running creeks

sting like icy needles

and exiting an alpine lake

gives warm shivers

floating in upper stream pools

I return to that childhood

where shimmers buoyantly move

and arms resist the gentle force

the waft of sagebrush vapors

wander under the shade of aspen shrubs-

I wish to be wading in water

thoughts meandering next to bliss

Kearsarge

Kearsarge

by Armando Ortiz

I sit meditating

on the southern slope of a mountain

the shadow of the north face

breaks free from its boundary

stratus clouds momentarily veil the sunlight

the landscape darkens as if it were night

the silence of Buddha is broken

as chipmunks from ground to rock scurry by

cold winds funnel down the alpine valley

making ripples and howls within rocks surrounding

colossal statue cracked unmoving

sits ringed with dabs of purple violet irises

crown of frozen grey and melting ice

is like a dream to my city eyes

Dream of Mountains: Short Piece

Dream of Mountains

by Armando Ortiz

I dream of hiking mountains
walking giant mortars
on alpine canyons
one continual upward motion

Life conceived extremes
thousands of winters
foxtails untouched by hands
firmly sweeping the wind they stand

wild flowers long harsh winter endured
late June rough gravel break through
granite peppered with pine green
where purple iris edge against a cairn

to watch molcajetes steaming with life
to walk on giant rocks
and stroll along grey cliffs
with white peaks that silently lie

to journey to a frozen conception
that melts into hidden cracks
and traverse giant mammoth molars
and glide on the air like a flying dinosaur.

In the name....

In the name…….

By Armando Ortiz

In the name of whom should we improve our communities when public schools are dismantled, and lay barren of hope?

In whose name do students get over tested to miss out on funds, and on an exploration of electives?

In whose name does the cutting of public school funds benefit the public, and support learning?

In whose name are educators forced to fight for what is right? To be able guide the youth and time for deep thinking.

In whose name is a child’s future put on the line and seen as a number and not a name, a result, not a journey?

In whose name does the serpent of privatization enter the house of impoverished communities, and tear up the one guaranteed right for every child?

In whose name do teachers strike, but for community, a decent future and healthy prospects.

In the name of equality and fairness is that we fight.

Despite immense odds, we stand up to fight against oligarchs, private entrepreneurs, corporate unknowns that never have seen the eyes of understanding or heard the anguish of student suffering.

In the name of justice, humanity, equality, the public good and freedom we strike. 

Missed Call

Missed Call

By Armando Ortiz

Yeah, I looked you up

after you accidentally called me

using a different program.

You were probably thinking of someone

while traveling through Eastern Europe

but in your mind a lingering memory

had you lost in hateful similes of me.

The ancient wandering rats of Rome

had you thinking of a sleazy and grimy opossum,

the foreign dialects that you heard had you wondering,

how true words could be so deceptive

to a lonesome soul.

You wore a white fuzzy cap,

a light blue dress with white borders

that fluttered to the Autumn winds

hid your body from all elements

and you had that unknown smile.

My eyes saw a tribal queen,

holding strong against the jet streams of

the Northern Asian steppes,

just a nomadic princess

made strong and determined by life’s

experience.

You were more than a marble bust

carved by the hands of Rodin,

like a rare precious Afghan stone,

that turned into the eyes of Venus over

the moonlight waters of Los Angeles.

I’ve moved on and

won’t return that call

but it raised many more questions

than it did answers at all.

I want to return to that accidental connection

and tell you about my situation,

you cannot to be my obsession, but

I’d walk with you in bazaars

along alleys and streets

and make memories anew.

But all you are is a reminder

of the time you said to leave

when you sent that message

where you turned the page

with our chapter closing,

making me disappear.

I have to remember that you are a digital copy

no longer here, but there, somewhere in LA,

a figment of the imagination

a morning frost in the middle of autumn

that disappears into the air by the time

I ring the bell  to do my job with simple care.

Believe me though

I’d still eat you up

in one green light

digging deep

and striking gold.

Morning Light

Morning Light

By Armando Ortiz

You became the dream unfulfilled,

a drifting mist from the coast

that dissipates into the summer heat,

after I shared with you my secrets.

You were the calming white roar of the Pacific

when we slept by each other’s side.

We were not meant to walk together

along the beach, holding hands.

I didn’t roll up my jeans- knee high,

nor did your clothes get wet.

We didn’t get splashed by ocean foam

or feel ourselves sink into the sand

following the egret that walked ahead.

We just held hands

during a late summer day

and under a yellow maple tree

is where we kissed the first time.

We pressed against each other

giving comfort to ourselves,

while the sun set

west of the Verdugo Mountains.

I held you tight,

you bit my shoulder,

we didn’t declare our love,

but rode the waves of passion.

Like running water,

flowing into a precipice,

our wills were caught up

in the rush of desire.

You allowed me to taste

the saltiness of your skin

and to nibble the left earlobe,

our bodies flowed into disaster.

A magnetic water fall

we floated in mid air

falling into an abyss

of unknown experience.

You accused me of selfishness

after I told you my forgotten truths.

With you, I grew, and became

conscious of my foolishness.

You might have loved me once,

but your warmth is with me forever,

I harness that memory with these words

hoping that we both remember.

What I did was unforgivable

and only once did I try to apologize,

not daring to try again

instead, I meditated on that dying ember.

Later I was crushed by remorse

and questioned my sanity,

forgiveness from you is unattainable,

nor is the love of the Virgin Mary.

I awake from this illusion,

you are forever gone,

lost in a collection of memories,

you regret and despise having met.

Walking back to my car that night

left me void of emotions and sight,

I drove through the darkness of night,

till the break of day gave a shimmer of light.

Although we are now apart

maybe this apology

one day finds

a place in your heart.