A STATE OF MIND
While you’re discovering the abundant beauty, inspiration and lore of Joshua Tree, you may rediscover yourself.
JOSHUA TREE NATIONAL PARK, Calif. — Renowned climber David Plumb Griffith III, “D. Griff ” to his friends, breezed past me and began scaling a 100-foot-high granite wall free-handed.
We were at the Cyclops, a popular climbing spot in Joshua Tree named for a hole resembling a monstrous eye.
The bare-chested D. Griff reached the top in six minutes before returning to escort me up the back way, where we looked out over a sea of yuccas marching toward sunset.
“Modern man is super craving a connection with nature,” he said, adjusting his blond ponytail beneath his hat. “You come here, and it’s all about feeling the wind, the sun and it’s gratifying, man. It’s magical. It’s super unreal.”
And I was super stoked to be sitting with a guy who had conquered rock faces from Patagonia to El Capitan. Better yet, he was a dude extraordinaire, a surfer-cum-climber-cum-desert rat with an engaging philosophical bent. The Dao of D. Griff.
“Dude, talk about yoga. Climb here and you connect with nature in a very intimate way,” he said. “Talk about focus and being in the moment. It’s easy to get into that meditative state here.”
More and more people are craving that Joshua Tree state of mind. Hikers, climbers and seekers of all sorts are converging on this park like never before.
Last year visitation topped 2 million, a record, and is expected to hit 2.4 million this year.
“For the past five years the National Park Service has been telling people to go out and find their parks, and it looks like they have,” said David Smith, superintendent at Joshua Tree.
Smith struggles to preserve the park while making it inviting to the public.
“The desert has a religious nature to it — the austerity, the intense heat, all the people free to contemplate their lives and roles in it,” he said. “When you are on a boulder and the wind is whipping, you begin asking yourself questions like, ‘Why am I here?’ ”
I was here in April seeking those who find inspiration, solace and adventure in the park. And I was bowled over by the spontaneous eloquence the harsh landscape evoked, how the alchemy of wind, heat and sky could be so transformative.
Catherine Svehla, who does a podcast called “Myth in the Mojave,” moved here from Los Angeles in 2001 to see how the desert would change her.
“I like that I can’t insulate myself from the natural world here,” she said as we hiked the Maze Loop. “I feel I’m a collaborator and participant in this place in a way I wasn’t when I lived in cities.”
We chose a spot among the boulders and listened to the wind — sometimes a still, small voice, other times a roaring dragon.
“We come into the desert to glory in our puniness,” she said. “There are limitations here that you simply can’t get around. And limitations are greatly underrated.”
It rained that afternoon. Lightning danced across the sky, illuminating the black clouds. The sun battled through in time to bathe the desert in stunning pink, orange and lavender light.
Rock ’n’ roll heaven
That night at the Joshua Tree Inn, up the road from the park, I met a young musician in the sandy courtyard.
Charlie Salvidge is a drummer in the English rock band Toy. He and his girlfriend, Karin Johansson, flew in from London to stay in Room 8 before heading to Buck Owens’ Crystal Palace in Bakersfield.
In 1973, Gram Parsons of the Byrds and Flying Burrito Brothers died of a tequila and morphine overdose in that room. Now it’s something of a shrine. An oversize stone guitar outside the door marks a makeshift memorial to the late musician.
“Gram Parsons had quite a big influence on me,” Salvidge said. “I stayed here because I wanted more connection with him. When I walked into the room I felt sort of nervous. You realize someone died in here. It’s very transcendental.”
The rock ’n’ roll history of Joshua Tree runs deep, thanks to its proximity to Los Angeles.
Park spokesman George Land, a former concert promoter, is an expert on the subject. He’s also a fasttalking raconteur with hints of Don Rickles. He hopped into my car. “Do you always keep it so cold in here?” he asked. “It’s hot outside,” I protested. “You could hang meat in here!” he retorted. I turned down the air. As we drove through the park, Land told me about Magic Mountain, where musicians, celebrities and others ate peyote. He produced a picture of an Eagles album showing the band around a campfire in the park. I was saddened to learn the Joshua tree on the cover of U2’s “The Joshua Tree” album was not in the park but near Death Valley. And it’s dead.
We stopped at Cap Rock, where Parsons was cremated, an event that has passed into rock legend.
Parsons’ producer Phil Kaufman, believing he was fulfilling his friend’s dying wish, stole his body. He and an accomplice bought a 5gallon can of gas, a case of beer and drove to Cap Rock.
“If you’re going to cremate your best friend, you’re going to need beer,” Land said. “It’s thirsty work.”
They toasted Parsons, then torched him.
“The body smoldered until the next morning,” Land said.
‘An unexpected gift’
We headed to Keys View, where Jürgen Schimmelpfennig was leaning on leg braces and gazing over the desert. He had kind eyes and a deeply lined face.
For years the biology teacher from Germany has made desert documentaries with his wife. The natural history of the coyote and saguaro cactus were especially popular on German TV.
“We have had a great life and now, if it’s a little shorter in the end, we ask ourselves, ‘What else could we have wished for?’ ” he said.
I dropped off Land, and he slipped me a handful of commemorative Joshua Tree guitar picks. Then I hiked down the Pine City trail among hedgehog cactuses sporting brilliant purple flowers.
Winter rains had sparked impressive blooms throughout the park. Plants that slink through life with little fanfare adorned themselves in resplendent reds, pinks and ochers. It reminded me of high school prom, where tuxedos and glittery dresses made even the awkward and homely briefly beautiful.
The fauna was plentiful. Bighorn sheep lingered by the road, and coyotes darted through the brush.
Artist Karine Swenson knows this world well. She spends mornings hunting wildlife with her camera. Once they are photographed, she paints their portraits in her studio. Jackrabbits are her favorite.
I joined her at the Hidden Valley Nature Trail.
Swenson grew up in South Dakota and made frequent car journeys to California, hating the “hot, horrible desert” every time she crossed it. When her husband was transferred to Southern California, they moved to the community of Joshua Tree.
“Now I love the desert,” she said. “I love the heat. In summer the light lasts forever.
“The desert has been an unexpected gift.”
It was lunchtime, so I made for the Crossroads Cafe just outside the park entrance. Levon Kazarian, its co-owner, joined me.
Business is so good these days, he yearns for competition.
“We have to tell people it will be an hour for a table; we run out of menu items,” he said. “We are a tiny restaurant punching way above its weight.”
I asked whether he considered himself a desert rat.
“Right now,” he said, laughing, “I’m still just a poser.”
‘It’s all an adventure’
That night I went walking with Ken Layne, publisher of the Desert Oracle, a slender gem of a field guide packed with folklore, freaks and general musings on the glories and weirdness of the desert.
Curious about the Yucca Man? Marvin of the Mojave, a ghost with size 10 sneakers? Ringtails? Buy the Oracle.
“The desert has suddenly become cool,” Layne said, as a quail burst out of the brush. “The millennials think it’s authentic. They come on their way to and from Coachella; it’s become something you have to do.”
For years the high desert was known more for its sketchy characters than the hipsters; the empty wilderness often was seen as less a place to preserve than somewhere to toss your old sofa.
Layne prefers the newcomers in some ways.
“It’s a much better problem to have than living in a place where almost everyone is aggressively hostile to the environment,” he said. “Let Joshua Tree have its moment.”
Back at the Cyclops, I met Seth Zaharias, who runs Cliffhanger Guides with his wife, Sabra Purdy.
Zaharias worries about the surge in visitors. He finds toilet paper behind rocks, graffiti and increasingly scarce parking.
“It’s an interesting conundrum,” he said. “I have more money in my pocket than ever before, but my quality of life has plummeted.”
Ropes tied, Zaharias and Purdy began climbing.
“It’s still the greatest hang ever,” he said.
D. Griff offered color commentary from the summit.
“You can do your little victory dance at the top or fall and bleed out on the rocks,” he said, puffing on a stubby cigarette. “It’s all an adventure, man.”
I realized then I could listen to D. Griff all day.
As for the crowds, he offered this: “If you want solitude just walk 15 minutes into the desert, sit there and look at a rabbit. That’s it.” “That’s it?” I asked. “Listen, I surf and do other sports, but it’s all the same thing, an excuse to be out here. You take what you can from this and go back to your world,” he said. “Go out to the desert, sit down and listen. Then go home.”
And that’s it. travel@latimes.com