BARSTOW

If you drive north from Los Angeles on I-15 on your way to Las Vegas or Needles, Arizona, you will likely hit Barstow. At first glance this town appears to be a remnant of the old West. The city sprouted along the railroad lines laid out a century and a half ago to connect California to the rest of the country. Before Barstow it was called Water Junction. Not that the place is a beach resort but at the time there must have been either a river running through it or a water table underneath. Barstow sits in the Mohave desert, and it's as hot and it sounds. The first time I met Barstow was on a Vegas trip with Jesús. We stopped at a Chinese diner right outside downtown and had a deep Americana experience. The owner, an Army man, cooked for us and regaled us with stories about the family photos hanging on the walls. We went back another time but the place was closed–or he didn't want to open it, another merchant said.

I developed a fondness for the town. Something in the dry, blasting heat and the silent emptiness of its streets screams backwater. But I connect with something that is valuable to me. Or perhaps I just like backwaters.

Ah, we also hiked Owl Canyon. Beautifully rocky, alluring, mysterious. Alive.