July
11, 2022
Greetings
from the middle of nowhere,
There
is a lonely spot in the desert of southern California, where even the ribbon of
US 395 doesn’t make much of an impact on the wildness of the place. It’s possible that one day you will be crossing
through here, and I would urge you ease off the accelerator just slightly, or
you may miss one of the few interesting facets there.
The
two lanes of 395 split the desert, a landscape almost entirely brown, other
than the scraps of weeds that border the tarmac. Half an hour after you leave the last gas
station, you will come to hints of humanity.
A few empty shacks, the rusted shell of a car, a mound of trash where someone
moved on.
If
you are driving at the posted speed, you will barely register the town of Red
Mountain, a few anonymous buildings crouched against the highway. One crumbling structure advertises ‘prospecting
equipment’, but nothing that would invite anyone to stop. And then, barely two miles later, there is Johannesburg.
For
perspective, Johannesburg is about 150 miles inland from Los Angeles, but no
one would ever say it is near L.A. It would
be easier to say it is near the Sea of Tranquility. There are other ways to tell people where it
is, but there are more ways to never describe it.
There
are many notable things about this little stretch of desert, chief among them
are the questions it inspires. Questions
and more questions.
Why
would someone choose to come here? If
you look back far enough, a century and half, there was a gold mine here, and
then silver. If they are still mining, it
is well disguised. Johannesburg was
where people lived when they weren’t digging.
To
be fair, my exposure to the town was fairly limited. We turned off the highway out of curiosity,
just past the ‘Johannesburg’ sign which featured an optimistic number of the
population, and a suggestion to call 9-1-1 in case of emergency. We saw no one outside, which made perfect sense,
given the triple digit temperatures. Also,
there was a sign that said ‘living ghost town’ which holds a reputation that
might encourage reclusion.
There
is a small grid of rough roads framing a mixture of dwellings. As we drove, I had this sense that people
were watching. It was also not hard to
imagine a group with torches and pitchforks blocking the next road. It is a world that invites all manner of
imagination.
There
were corrugated metal buildings, rusted and sagging, and abandoned cars, pieces
of farm equipment, and countless travel trailers, most of which were clearly
never traveling again. There was one burned
out trailer, which seemed to have blossomed like a black tinged flower, and
then left to rot in its own detritus.
There
were a few traditional homes, some in decent condition, with newer trucks
nearby. But most of the lots held mobile
homes, or a combination of that and some other vehicle attached to it to make a
larger residence. The rest of the housing
was crumbling sheds surrounded by parts of sheds, which gave depth to the word ‘ramshackle’.
Nearly
all the houses were surrounded by high fences, made from pallets and old signs
and pieces of other fences. It made me
think they were expecting the apocalypse.
Or just experienced it. There
were a few political signs, most crudely fashioned, which I am confident
reflected the attitudes of all the neighbors since there was no opposing point
of view represented.
One
of the most curious signs was a hand painted board, two in fact, that said: ‘Nick
Buffalo Thief’. With no other explanation,
and no helpful punctuation, passers-by were left to speculate. Perhaps the Nick in question was a buffalo thief.
Maybe the man’s full name was Nick Buffalo,
and this was a condemnation of his general dishonesty. Or maybe it was some kind of promotion for someone
named Nick Buffalo Thief, a political sign perhaps.
Whoever
put up the signs for Nick Buffalo Thief felt strongly, from what we could tell from
the bold strokes of whitewash on the boards.
The rest is left to question.
There
was a metallic effigy, perhaps leftover plumbing parts, hung by its neck above
a fence with a sign around it stating: ‘Covid cure’. Here again, not sure of the message or the
motivation.
Whatever
else brought people to Johannesburg, or suggested they stay, it was not the
view. The desert, while not featureless,
offered little relief. There were a few
ridges that broke the horizon, but only rare trees, and nothing other than the sagging
powerlines to break up the bleak landscape.
It
is a curious place. It attracts a
different breed of people.
A
dozen miles away, and as far from there to any other place, we passed a man
walking along the shoulder of 395. He had
wild hair, and a wilder beard. He was
dressed in layers of heavy clothing, despite the oppressive heat. He was shambling toward Johannesburg, pulling
a wagon behind him. We went by at sixty,
which might as well have been the speed of light, so it took a moment for the
image to register. My brother turned to
me. “What? Where is he GOING?”
I’m
pretty sure it was Nick Buffalo.
Hope
this finds you curiouser,
David
Copyright
© 2022 David Smith
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