"Truth" is a relative term.

...And, apparently, so is "time," when you ask a GPS how long it takes to get to the Mojave Desert.

Let me back up. Why were we going to the desert, you ask? Well, here's the thing: I can't really speak for Erin, because living with her is new (and, by the way, awesome), but Jenn and I haven't really had legitimate weekends before. Between class, Bay State, projects, and Best Buy, we've always worked through weekends. It's exciting to have these opportunities where nothing is due, there are no pressing deadlines...we can just relax and have fun. So, come Saturday, when I pitched a day trip to the desert to my roommates, we couldn't really come up with a reason why it wasn't a good idea. Did we have time? Yes. Have we ever been to the desert before? No. Is it expensive? No, it's free to explore, you just have to pay gas to get there.

Well...okay, then! We threw out an invite to a few others, and Mapgar readily joined--despite his recent arrival in LA, during which he'd already driven past quite a few desert landscapes.

Anyway, we got up reasonably early, prepared for a four-hour trip (you know: water, Cheez-Its...the essentials), clambered into my Jeep, and we were off. Using Jenn's GPS (which, unlike mine, is not broken), we typed in the location of the Mojave National Reserve Info. Center, and raised our eyebrows skeptically when it said "two hours" as the arrival time.

We found some great radio stations (as we tend to do), and were in awe as we drove, since the views out our window changed from buildings and palm trees, to dry mountains and desert. The more "desert" it got, the less radio we got. We gradually began to wonder where we were actually going.

Two hours go by, and suddenly we're in Barstow, California. The Mojave National Reserve Info. Center is a mere two miles away, and we're pretty much on-time, according to the GPS. We're hungry, there's a Mexican restaurant staring at us from the exit, so we decide to grab lunch.

Oh, Casa Jimenez...how can I do you justice? Everything on the menu was $5.00, which is great. But everything on the walls was a mounted, dead animal--including, mind you, a zebra. Where did they find this zebra? Why is it staring at me while I eat my delicious, cheap Mexican food?

We spent the entire meal giggling uncomfortably, then left, thinking, "Time to hike!"

Little did we know that the Mojave National Reserve Info. Center is actually two hours from the Mojave National Reserve hiking trails. We found out when we pulled into the deserted building (Ahhh....! See what I did there?), and Jenn and Mapgar ran out to investigate the giant map, while Erin and I speculated from the car.
Jenn re-enters with the sentence, "How do you feel about Nevada?" When Erin and I just stare, she continues, "The desert's two hours in that direction." Well, we prepared for a four-hour journey (remember, the Cheez-Its), so we soldier on.

I think it was around an hour-and-a-half later when the GPS said, "You have arrived," and all we saw was this:
Respectfully, GPS, we disagree. Where is the damn hiking trail? Another stop at a giant map indicates that it's quite a few miles down Cima Road, which was quite a few miles from where we were. "Well," one of us says, "We can't stop now."

We finally arrive at Cima Rd., where we obviously stop to take pictures.


Then, we continue to drive down it, keeping our eyes peeled for a hiking trail that Jenn's entered into the GPS (which, at this point, I'm not sure why we're still trusting). When we pass a sign labeled "Hiking Trail," the GPS still thinks we have five miles to go. We figure, we want to see the desert anyway, so we'll turn around if it's wrong.

It is wrong. This is what awaited us at the five-mile-later mark:

LOST, anyone?

By now, it's 3:30 PM, and we can't really hike without risking being in the desert (alone) after dark. But, we turn back to the hiking trail, and figure we'll explore a bit before the sun starts to set. But the eerie silence (and I mean silence) and the fact that we have to leave the car unattended (with no other cars in sight), leads us to believe we're in a horror film.


Our hiking chat went something like this:
Mapgar: "When we come back, the car's going to be gone."
Me: "When we come back, it'll have three flat tires, and a very creepy man in a tow truck will kidnap us."
Erin: "We could leave someone with the car."
Me: "No, that person always dies first."
Mapgar: "Well, I vote that person is not me."
Jenn: "Well, I'm fine. I've got a camera. I die last, because the police always have to find the footage of the other people dying."
Mapgar: "I may kill Jenn just so I have the camera."

And then we'd get distracted by something pretty and pose with it. Pics or it didn't happen, right?


After a forty-five minute picture foray on the trail, we hear a strange noise from a bush, the sun's getting dimmer behind the mountains, and we figure...it's about time to go home. The car was still there, and it was unharmed, and other than the ridiculous amount of traffic (probably coming from Vegas), we got home without any problems.

That is, until we realized we had work and class again the next morning, and we really didn't rest very much all weekend. Adventurers never get any sleep.

--Lauren

(Photo cred. in this entry goes to Jenn.)