02.15.07
Into the Sink
There are few pleasures more terrible than the waking of the Tulare Basin on a summer morning. The air has warmth that seems to whisper of the heat of the day, yet comforts as it haunts. The light of roads, the farms, the combines, and the trucks are scattered over the flat expanse like boats on a great, placid sea. One imagines the machine of Valley agriculture to be a sleeping dragon, both terrible and beautiful, and like the dragon, never sleeping very deeply on its treasure pile.
Soon a blue glow appears above the profile of the Sierra Nevada. The glow grows imperceptibly brighter, until spears of white light shoot skyward, heralding the impending arrival of the sun. When the sun arrives, everything is blinded, and the soft hues of dawn are usurped by the glare and deep shadows of the day. The driving becomes strained and dangerous. The dragon is no longer feigning sleep.
The drive from Mojave to Tehachapi is surprisingly short considering that the Sierra Nevada lies immediately to the north. One nearly feels as though one is creeping past a sleeping giant. As a child, I had no thoughts for that scaled beast that today occupies my mind. I only looked up at the ridges, wondering whether the distant figurines were all joshua trees, or whether some of them were Indians.
The descent into the Basin, though an easy, almost welcoming descent, is quite extended. There is no missing the fact that it’s a long way down. From the top, one enjoys a serpentine escort, as twin rails wind in broad coils and cut through the mountains. Leaving the breezy high desert behind, one meets a stagnant, purple blanket of trapped exhausts, herbicides, and pesticides. It is nothing new. Smog has been a companion of the Basin as long as fire itself, and it’s not just bad air that it traps.
Summer always arrives a little early in the Basin. The air is hot, dry, yet stale and sticky. I caught the chickenpox as soon as we landed. I sat fevering and itching, looking out my bedroom window into the heat of the day, though there was nothing to see out there but more houses. There was nowhere to go there. I would say “out” there, but that wouldn’t be quite right. Every piece of land had a claim on it. Every house was a fortress, and the streets and sidewalks were only motes, patrolled by bullies that might as well have been crocodiles.
The mountain streams from the Kings to the Kern once knew the Lake like other streams know the ocean. The lake itself would spill over its natural spillways into the San Joaquin River in spring, keeping its water relatively free of salinity. It was not a park-like place. The lake was a massive breeding ground for malarial mosquitoes. Every summer, as the river flows dropped, the retreating shores of the lake would leave a plain of rotting fish carcasses where the lake had previously been.
Ever since the harvesters reclaimed the lakebed, it’s been hard to think of the lake in the same way. The maps today might represent the lake, but there’s no reason to label the Basin. It’s just the southern San Joaquin Valley today, but if you spend any time there, you can still tell the difference. You can still feel the lake water in the air every time you inhale.
After I got over chickenpox and overcame my fear of crocodiles and automobiles, I would set out to explore, but there was little to be explored. The farms weren’t far away, but they were industrial farms, no more welcoming than a switchyard or a cement plant. Over time, I abandoned the expeditions and settled indoors.
It was not long until the Mission gained a good following. Mom and Dad found a Mission-style house that they could rent as a residence and an office on one of Hanford’s busier streets, Grangeville Boulevard. Business was good; good enough to afford bicycles.
Not having much experience with such childhood skills, I wasn’t sure I’d be able to ride a bike. At age twelve, I felt a little old to be learning such things, but this I did learn, and it changed my world. It transformed the Basin. Suddenly, that immense grid of roads became a frontier, as the desert had been years before. The farms were still forbidden, but at the scale of the Basin, the towns, parks, canals, and other landmarks were a worthy frontier.
