The Ranger's shack was a beaten, dusty office under a Tamarisk Grove. His name was, suitably, Brady. I issued my announcement that I would be camping backcountry, and,
"Can you tell me about the roads here?"
He said, "Do you have four wheel drive."
"Yes."
"Take a seat," he said and poured two glasses of water. He described the farthest off roads, leading to lightly travelled slot canyons and hollows and dry creek beds, and,
"What is this big square here?" I said, pointing to real estate adjacent to the park. "That was a federal bomb site."
"What's it like there?"
"Oh it's wonderful. Red rock, canyons, rivers."
"So you've been there."
"Well, No, I've seen pictures. No one is allowed in there."
"Then how'd you see the pictures?"
"A ranger patrols the area. I met him."
And what about this road and that road and when I said thanks for the help, he kept talking. As I inched for the door, he noticed and said, "Sorry, man, I haven't talked to anybody all day." So I gave him yesterday's Los Angeles Times and my business card; "If you ever go to the federal site, give me a call, I'm interested."
In the dark, I drove along a sand wash, up a mild slope under the Creosote and looked for a spot to pitch camp. It wasn't easy, because the desert camper's worst nightmare is the unlikelihood of rain.
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