Tag 251: Oatman

Loud voices, cars. Light shines through the towels on the window. 6:30 am. Tired and with sticky eyes, I look out the window. Native Americans in sportswear, everywhere. What's going on here? After 20 minutes, they're all gone. We get out, it's cold. We decide not to waste any time and continue on Route 66. The road is winding and continues into the mountains. Cacti, dust, green hills, and gray mountains. Old sheds, rusty cars, and forgotten mines reminiscent of the gold rush era. Lots of motorcyclists fulfilling their dream on the 'Historic Route 66', bighorn sheep arrogantly looking down on us from the mountaintops, and occasionally a few donkeys on or beside the road. After a while, we arrive in Oatman. It's like we took a trip back in time. One or two saloons, the sheriff's house, an old jail, a gold mine, and lots of shops. Instead of horses, motorcycles stand in front of the saloons, and instead of cowboys, donkeys wander the streets. Lots of donkeys. The village has charm. We treat ourselves to a big ice cream and stroll through the Wild West town. After half an hour, we've seen everything and continue driving. By the time we arrive at the entrance of Joshua Tree National Park, it's already quite late. We find out where we can camp for free nearby and set off. The road leads away from the main road, deeper and deeper into the desert. The houses become fewer, the roads become worse. It must be somewhere here. We actually expect to find a signposted campsite where other campers without high demands spend the night. Nothing. Well, there is a house. We stop to ask. The owner is new here and speaks little English. We drive a little further. The last house for miles around. I get out. About 200 meters behind us, a coyote, dry desert, and this house. I enter the property and start making loud noises to get attention. The house is fenced, two barking pit bulls behind it, no doorbell. I call again. A man comes out and explains in a friendly conversation where the place should be. I look into the distance and don't see anything. I thank him and return to the car. My unease must be written all over my face because the man calls after me and offers us to camp on his property. That definitely feels better. We park the car, set up our tent, and make a campfire. The man is very nice but socially somewhat awkward. Mid-40s, retired ex-soldier, Trump supporter, no family, living alone in the middle of the desert. We spend the evening together by the fire and then go to the tent. The endless desert right in front of us, the coyotes on one side, and a socially bizarre ex-soldier on the other. I fall asleep with better thoughts.