10:09 p.m. on a Saturday night. I’m preparing to leave town for three weeks when my phone dings signaling that I’ve received a text message. When I pick up my device, I see it’s from my friend Eric. The two of us have been friends for a good thirty years now. Shared outdoor interests, common world views, and an appreciation of good craft beer made us natural compatriots. But it wasn’t just that. I have common interests with most of my friends. What made my relationship with Eric unique was his ever-present enthusiasm and willingness to actually “do stuff.” If I asked him whether he wanted to ride mountain bikes, the answer was always “yes.” Did he want to go hiking? “Of course!” How about we go to Lone Pine to camp? “Let’s go.” Hey, we should go to the Beer and Bluesapalooza festival in Mammoth. “Ok, I’ll get the tickets.” Whatever the situation, if it directly or indirectly involved outdoor recreation, Eric was all in without hesitation. In fact, if truth be told, at least half of t
South Bakersfield and I’m on the wrong side of the railroad tracks again. I’m not lost and I didn’t take a wrong turn. It was a deliberate choice to come here. The smattering of dhabas that punctuate this broken stretch of road home to trucking companies, taco stands, and skeezy bars brought me here. The magnetism of roadside dal, paneer, and curry is a potent, epicurean draw. In my blue collared shirt, green club tie, and mustard-hued dress slacks, I’m an anomaly here. Moving amongst husky fellows in oily jump suits, leathery farm hands, and dark, exotic men chattering away in Hindi , I feel like I’ve breached exclusive space. Like I’m not good enough to be here. Or perhaps it’s the opposite. I realize how egotistical that might sound, but I don’t know how else to explain the social discomfort from the flipped script. But no one gives me the side-eye. I’m invisible. And even if I wasn’t, it wouldn’t really deter me. I’m on a pilgrimage of sorts, a personal Kumbh Mela to the sacred