In the inexplicable silence, I could hear blood coursing my veins, the steady rhythm of my heart like an oil derrick working without pause. I had no idea how hot it would be, how foolish my undertaking. After two days, my hair had paled and my skin was red. I’d bought a belt canteen but it was too small, only a quart. I decided to travel at night and sleep during the day, embedded in my sleeping bag, which turned wet and heavy from perspiration. At a diner I stole packets of salt and began eating it raw to replace my sweat. Rides were few but they were usually very long. People drove at incredible speeds. Many carried water, a rifle, shovel, and CB radio. Two drivers referred to me as vulture bait. One told me the best place to sleep was on the sunset side of the huge red stones that poked from the land like petrified monsters. Afternoon heat, he said, was ten degrees warmer than the morning, a difference that could kill you sooner. After three days of moving past dry lake beds, I traversed the Tehachapi Pass and began a descent, finally meandering north through the San Joaquin Valley.
