Joshua Tree, California, to Lordsburg, New Mexico.
The sun rose at an incredibly shocking 5:30 am. I woke slowly at the High Desert Motel, still wrapped in a sleepy grip that kept pulling me back under. The room was mostly dark, and the heavy curtains only allowed a sliver of desert sun in a tidy ribbon across the room. The day before had been a long drive across miles of arid landscape out of LA. The endless expanse of earth and sky blended in the distance in that hypnotic fata morgana way that only a high heat differential could accomplish. Those wispy illusions bent off on the otherwise featureless horizon that seemed to warp time and space. Today, the expanse calls us again.
The room had a faint, familiar scent of travel-worn carpet, dust and the lingering smell of an old, struggling air conditioner. I shuffled around, not highly motivated, and gathered the laundry bags filled with dirty clothes for cleaning. The laundry setup at the motel was not the greatest, and the motel could only provide enough quarters to wash one load. So, I started what I could and returned to the room to get everyone ready. I shrugged it off. It was just one of those minor inconveniences one expects on long trips like this, and the long open road can force you to let go of these small, insignificant irritations.
It was a typical lackluster breakfast in the motel dining room, a dusty high desert motif that reeked of missed opportunities and dark wood from the Rat Pack era with low lighting. This morning's air was dry but comfortable as we loaded the van and headed into Joshua Tree Proper. In the van, we sat in companionable silence, most not yet pulled from their hazy, sleep-fueled fog.
Joshua Tree was a signature mix of eccentricity and small-town charm. We found the local laundromat already packed on this unfilled morning, with others washing their garments and hanging out. It was an interesting environment that felt more like a social club than a lavandería, as everyone chatted and mingled while waiting for their clothes. Diem and I sat in the fascinating little gem on the edge of the desert, people-watching and enjoying some conversations with locals and those just passing through alike. We sat in the front window mere feet from the van, and the girls cycled from the van to the patch of desert out front to back inside, inquiring how much longer it would be.
Eventually, our clothes were cleaned, folded and packed back away. We headed next door to a cozy, desert-themed restaurant called the Crossroads Cafe, tucked away on the main strip in the heart of town. The sun was climbing high and the temperature was rising quickly as we entered the little oasis for an early lunch. There was sun-bleached art, an antique wood ceiling, a bar, massive steel beams and a robust bar top, with cacti and other desert themes populating the scene as we tucked into a four-top past the bar in the back of the establishment. The restaurant seemed to be a mashup of the town's charm.
We discussed the day's activities at lunch over my Reuben sandwich and side Caesar salad, namely our push through Joshua Tree National Park and the long run to close the day as far into New Mexico as possible. The air inside was cool, and for a while we forgot the heat that waited for us just beyond the door. We lingered, not quite ready to face the sweltering desert afternoon, talking about the miles ahead and the roads behind us. It would be a long slog across the breadth of Arizona to hopefully find rest in Lordsburg tonight, over 500 miles away. Eventually, everyone filled up for the long push. We paid our check, piled in the van, and made way for the Joshua Tree National Park Visitor's Center.
It was well before noon when we stepped in front of the Visitor's Center. Its silver steel walls reflect away heat, and its front yard is covered in dirt and populated with indigenous flora. At the edge of the property was a beautiful mural about eight feet tall and extending the length of the property, depicting scenes of flora and fauna, both modern and ancient.
As we reached the entrance, a sign warned of the deadly dangers of the desert heat. It emphasized the need for hydration and gave a list of all the things one needed to survive the desert sun. Seeing that we were essentially driving our home on wheels, I felt confident we had all the resources to tackle the park. We quickly explored the center, discussed the route through the park and any notable stops and pertinent information with the ranger, grabbed a few souvenirs and piled back in the van to push through the beautiful desert landscapes of Joshua Tree National Park.
The history of Joshua Tree National Park is as fascinating as its landscape. The area was first inhabited by Indigenous peoples, including the Serrano, Chemehuevi and Cahuilla tribes, who lived in harmony with the arid desert environment, gathering native plants and using the rocky terrain for shelter. In the 19th century, the region attracted miners seeking gold and other precious minerals. The remnants of these early mining operations can still be found scattered throughout the park, offering a glimpse into the rough-and-tumble history of the Old West.
The establishment of Joshua Tree National Park began in the 1930s, largely thanks to the efforts of Minerva Hoyt, a passionate advocate for desert conservation. Hoyt recognized the unique beauty of the Joshua tree and the surrounding ecosystem. Her tireless lobbying led to the area being designated as Joshua Tree National Monument in 1936 by President Franklin D. Roosevelt. Minerva Hoyt, often referred to as the "Apostle of the Cacti," was a pioneering figure in environmental preservation, especially at a time when the value of desert landscapes was largely overlooked. Born in Mississippi in 1866, Hoyt moved to California and developed a deep appreciation for the stark beauty of the desert. After experiencing personal tragedy with the loss of her husband and son, she found solace in the serene, expansive desert, which sparked her dedication to protecting it.
Hoyt was appalled by the rapid destruction of desert flora by developers and plant collectors who saw the desert only as an empty wasteland or a resource to be exploited. She was determined to change this perception and preserve the unique beauty she had come to love. Hoyt used her influence and social standing to educate others about the ecological significance of the desert and its striking plant life. She organized elaborate exhibitions of desert plants in major cities like New York and London, aiming to demonstrate the fragile beauty of the desert environment to a broader audience. Her exhibits won over the public, helping to shift the perception of the desert from a barren void to a place of wonder and unique biodiversity.
Hoyt's persistence and advocacy culminated in her presenting a proposal to the state and federal governments to protect the Joshua tree and its surrounding environment. Her work caught the attention of President Franklin D. Roosevelt, who ultimately designated Joshua Tree as a national monument in 1936. Minerva Hoyt's vision did not stop at Joshua Tree. She was instrumental in the early movement to preserve desert areas across California, helping to ensure that these landscapes would be valued and protected for future generations.
In 1994, as part of the California Desert Protection Act, it was upgraded to national park status, expanding its protected area and ensuring the preservation of its diverse landscapes for future generations. Today, Joshua Tree National Park is celebrated for its striking geological features, iconic Joshua trees, and the incredible biodiversity in this seemingly barren desert. Minerva Hoyt's legacy of unwavering commitment to conservation and love for the delicate beauty of the desert endures in every twisted Joshua tree and vast desert vista.
So here, from the dusty outpost of Joshua Tree unincorporated, we plunged southeast down Park Blvd toward the heart of the park. On the northwest borders of the Sonoran desert, Joshua Tree was vast, and its rugged beauty was the kind that words often fail to capture. The land seemed to stretch forever, a sea of dusty earth punctuated by clusters of Joshua Trees, sagebrush and the occasional tumbleweed rolling across the scene. All of it was framed by the dusty, rocky outcrops of the Hexie and Eagle mountains, lonely and forbidding outposts of mountain desert desolation.
The earth was covered in a thin coating of sand, and undoubtedly, all flat surfaces in the valleys were dry flood beds where silt was deposited after every rain. Sagebrush and Joshua Trees were the only green in the landscape, a randomized pattern of forest green splashes dotting the land over the small mountains in the not-so-far distance. At the horizon the sky was a soft, powdery blue, climbing to the height of the heavens and transforming into an eye-piercing deep sapphire. At the center was the slow winding grey path beset in the earth, the one we traveled on into the ever-expanding distance.
The day had grown warm but not unbearable, so we stopped to take pictures at several of the park's famous landmarks. The Joshua Trees themselves were a big draw, and we found several interesting specimens, including the tallest one known. Members of the yucca family, those striking, desert-inspiring ornamentals that populate any ornamental architectural plant space from malls to movie theaters, thrive in the Joshua Tree wilderness unlike anything else, and particularly the fabled Yucca brevifolia, or commonly, the Joshua Tree.
Many stories have been spun about the origin of the common name. One is that it came from a group of Mormon settlers making their way across the Mojave Desert in the mid-19th century, who saw something divine in the tree’s gnarled, outstretched limbs, something that echoed the biblical story of Joshua, whose raised hands helped guide the Israelites to victory in their conquest of Canaan. Perhaps they also saw in its shaggy leaves a prophet's beard, a symbol of endurance in the harsh desert winds. But, as it often happens with folklore, the truth is elusive.
There's no firsthand record to confirm this is why the name stuck, and the earliest references to “Joshua Tree” appear only after the Mormons moved on. Interestingly enough, the story behind the name could just as easily fit Moses, another prophet with hands outstretched and a journey through a barren wilderness. Like much of the desert, the Joshua Tree holds its history loosely, somewhere between fact and myth.
Surrounded by muted earth tones, these yuccas populate the Joshua Tree National Park in droves, and their spiky forms contrast with the rounded granite boulders. The harsh desert sun only emphasizes their tenacity and their ability to thrive where life seems almost impossible.
At Cap Rock trailhead, we turned south on Keys View Road for an unknown spot only marked as Keys View on a lone, green road sign with an arrow pointing in the direction we were now headed. The asphalt road was a charcoal-gray ribbon winding through a barren landscape with dusty beige shoulders that melted into the sandy earth. Onward, we snaked through Lost Horse Valley, elevation 4,384 FT., and up the eastern slopes of the Little San Bernardino Mountains. The distant horizon, dusted in soft amber and warm tans, faded into the muted shades of the desert floor. A silver-green splash of creosote bushes dotted the scene, and the Joshua Trees stood with an almost surreal silhouette, casting delicate shadows upon the road.
We reached Keys View at high noon and stepped out to the small park on a ridge tucked in a triangular apex between Quail, Ryan and Lost Horse Mountains. The ridge overlooked the Coachella Valley and Palm Springs, tucked against the San Jacinto Mountains on the far side of the valley. The air was parched, and everything shimmered under the intense midday sun. The solitude of the view was deep, an expanse of dusty nothingness stretching out in every direction. The only sign of movement in the harsh, rugged landscape was the shifting clouds of sand that wisp across the valley many miles away.
In the farthest distance, Mount San Jacinto rose to an impressive 10,834 feet with a striking snow-capped grandeur. The powdery white cap offered an interesting contrast to the otherwise oven-baked landscape. For some time, we sat and took in the view, but the ever-nagging reality of many miles still to go today and the added challenge of losing an hour crossing the border into Arizona urged us to push on. We navigated the dusty asphalt of Keys View Road back to Park Boulevard and pushed deeper into the park.
Not far along, we spotted the tallest Joshua Tree known and pulled over for a closer look. The girls had no interest in this botanical marvel, and Diem and I alone braved the now sweltering heat of the midday desert sun. The tree was imposing, standing a respectable 43 feet, and is affectionately called the Barber Pole. It has an unusually straight trunk with minimal deviation until near the top, and the striking tree is estimated at an even more impressive age of 960 years.
Well-hydrated and loving the landscape, Diem and I explored the roadside for some time. The valley was an alien world, alive with the strange, otherworldly forms of the Joshua Trees. Their twisted limbs claw at the sky in contorted poses. The horizon stretches wide and unbroken before us, a panorama of endless desert under a flawless blue sky. However, the sun was relentless, and soon we both agreed to push on.
Past Skull Rock, we turned south on Pinto Basin Road and climbed the Hexie Mountains before plunging down into the Pinto Basin and the park's back wilderness. The road wound down an incline toward the floor of the massive basin. Smaller sagebrush, creosote bushes and a scattering array of various succulents replaced the Joshua Trees as we crossed the mountains, all painted in a sheen of desert sand. A sign on the road hinted at a fabled "garden" in the backwoods, and we pulled off the road for a closer look.
Tucked in the northwest corner of the flatbed basin, the Cholla Garden loomed vast and foreboding across the expansive valley. A well-marked entrance sat at the edge of a small parking lot, and wood fencing marked the path. A weathered sign with chipped and faded red paint commanded attention against the desert's muted backdrop. "This Cactus Is Hazardous," it simply stated in a manner both ominous and pragmatic. The sign's scuffed edges and sun-faded text spoke of countless visitors who had paused here, perhaps heeding its sage-like advice or perhaps becoming an anecdote to history and becoming the very need for the sign.
As we approached the trail, a lizard darted across the gravelly desert floor and paused in an unshaded section of earth, waiting for our next move. His sharp, angular head twitched in a jerky motion as he surveyed his surroundings. Ever alert for danger, he made no move as we walked by, fully embracing the sun's relentless heat. And hot it was. As we approached the sea of teddy bears, as this particular species is commonly known, the heat was penetrating. Their fuzzy-looking, painful, barbed spikes appear like a fuzzy blanket on the stumpy cholla, to the point that they look huggable. However, the desert is full of stories of the woeful few who tested this theory. It is said to be incredibly painful to remove, and a light brush can have dozens embedded in the skin.
It breeds by simply attaching itself to anything that wanders by, giving it an incredible drive to do just that, stick to you. The plant isn't overall robust, and large chunks and stems often fragment with the spines as they are embedded in an animal's fur or skin. Wherever the animal happens to get rid of the chunk, it roots and forms a new Cholla. Over time, this creates a large garden where all of the Chollas are from the same original parent plant and, therefore, genetically identical. The Chollas do flower every spring, but the fruit that develops rarely has viable seeds, and the traditional modes of reproduction left the habits of the Cholla many millennia ago, leaving behind only isolated gardens of cloned Chollas. A peculiar plant indeed.
After wandering the path and taking lots of pictures among the teddy bear Cholla, it was time, once again, to move on. At the southern edge of Pinto Basin, we climbed into the Cottonwood Mountains past the Cottonwood Springs Oasis. From here, we fell out of the mountains, exited the park's southern entrance, where we stopped for one last photo, picked up I-10 just west of Chiriaco Summit, and pushed east, running from the setting sun. It was well into the afternoon when we hit the highway, and we would not stop until New Mexico. I-10 cut through the expansive landscape in a rarely deviating straight line. Topping a hill or a low mountain pass, you would be presented with a massive valley coated in earthy tones with a ribbon of grey asphalt running the length of the massive valley and disappearing on the other side over the next hill or mountain range. The scene unfolded into what was an incredibly humbling view.
We lost an hour as we crossed the Colorado River into Arizona, pushing our time well past the four o'clock hour. With the loss of an hour and now pushing east toward the coming darkness as fast as the law would allow, our drives now would include night drives, something I have been able to avoid to this point. At Phoenix, we left I-10 for 60/70 and cut across Arizona through Globe, avoiding a rough patch of Interstate construction southeast of Phoenix.
The highway stretched ahead in the vast desert wilderness, cutting a grey line through gold and forest green in the late afternoon light. The sky was a soft pastel gradient of peach, rose and lavender melting into the azure blue above. The scene was framed on the edges by the silhouette of distant mountains in deep purple.
On and on, we pushed forward toward the dying light. The tangled bursts of foliage contrasted less and less against the distant mountains, though their jagged peaks were still etched sharply against the evening sky. The air felt serene as nightfall came over the Arizona wilderness. The subtle purples and oranges of the horizon hinted at a lingering heat, though the cool, star-filled skies were encroaching quickly. Eventually, the terrain softened and the low shrubs blended with open patches of earth, until nothing was left to behold but what light our headlamps were casting on the road ahead.
At about 9 pm local time, we crossed the border into New Mexico. The "New Mexico True" sign emerged from the night, lit by headlights against a void of darkness. It was well past 10 when we rolled into Lordsburg, where we would stay the night. Rumblings of hunger filled the air as we unloaded into a rough-and-tumble Motel 6 on the edge of the desert. I spotted a late-night drive-thru mom-and-pop Mexican spot and left to grab some food while the girls prepared for bed.
It had been a long push, and we had one more tough day ahead before we reached Galveston, Texas, where we would relax for a few days and enjoy the beach. One more National Park tomorrow, number fifteen on the journey, and then most of the sights will have been completed. We had already pushed 7,664 miles, with 214:44:15 of engine hours since we left home twenty-four days ago. Twenty-four days on the road. Had it been that long? It just seemed like yesterday that we were horseback riding through the Grand Tetons. In four days, we will arrive back home in Atlanta. Soon, I will begin to analyze what we have accomplished, start the memoir of the journey, and dictate the depth of the adventure. All I can definitively say now is that it has been an incredible journey beneath this amazingly beautiful and endless American sky.
All I can definitively say now is that it has been an incredible journey beneath this amazingly beautiful and endless American sky.
Click here for the National Park Service to explore some of the parks and monuments we’ve explored and more.
