Lately life seemed more surreal. Before this trip I was at a confrence in San Francisco where I met someone who worked for a natural food start up. They sold things like gluten free bread and dairy free milk alternatives. She told me they recently implemented a chatbot to deflect 43% of their support tickets. This pickled my brain. Who was submitting tickets about bread? How many tickets were they getting that they needed a chatbot? How did they have enough money for an expensive chatbot? I needed to get away from Silicon Valley. The mountains called me, so had the desert, and the redwoods. At this point anything that wasn’t on a cloud server called me.

Luckily we had planned a long weekend in Joshua Tree. Myself, Cole, Brody, Reese, and of course Frank. We were to celebrate a few birthdays, hike, wheel, laugh, drink and simply be togehter.

Now back headed Home, North, driving towards Barstow. Brody and I were in Lucerne Valley, on an island of private property surrounded by BLM land. We stood among the most disorienting scene. Not even out of the desert yet and the absurd was already creeping back in. We stood among acres of a commune, seemingly abandoned, in the desert. It reminded me of the hitchhikers destination in Easy Rider. The land was divided into a neat grid by unmaintained dirt roads. Each lot housed left behind trucks and cast off trailers. On every other lot the DIY wooden bones of once-tarped structures remained. In some places the horticulture tarp was still fixed to the wooden frame and flapped in the desert wind like a kite, lashing about. Unsure, we left the truck and explored on on foot. Was it really abandoned? The wood seemed too new: the structure recently erected. Built not years but months ago.

Was it a commune of homesteaders, trying to live off the grid? Trying to grow food in this barren valley? Perhaps, and like the commune of Easy Rider it failed and the people moved on little by little. Or perhaps something more nefarious? No trespassing signs were plenty, but no one seemed around to enforce them. There were better, and more accessible, desert views. Perhaps the builders choose this site because no one would come here.

We mused aloud to each other, kicked rocks, found a Snapple cap, and noticed a cloud of dirt before hearing the hum of a small motor. A golf card nearing us, trailed by three dogs. Was this the person tasked to enforce the signs? The cart turned away, but knowing there was someone else here — someone who seemed to have chosen to live here — was enough for Brody and I to leave. On our way out, a realtor’s sign, clean and white, asserted itself against the desert.

—

Our weekend was both eventfully busy and enjoyably slow. Quick to ready ourselves for a hike, but slow to enjoy the views. Fast to refill one another’s glass, but the drinks savored; unless downed quickly and chased with either laughter. When not out exploring we would DJ’d for each other in our rental.

Among many great moments that weekend, my most vivid memory is a sunset hike in the park on Hidden Valley trail. Parking in the lot minutes after the sun had started its descent we started the short hike. For the most part, we had the trail to ourselves. A young French family hiked ahead of us, more ofter heard than seen — the soft giggles of their kids echoing off the rocks.

As the sun sank deeper beyond the horizon the colors of the valley continued to change. Brown rocks became martian orange, then soft pink. Eventually the light of the sun was gone, but the full moon lit the sky and made the trail new. We somehow all noticed the same shooting star, and unison turned to one another to confirm its brief existence. Yes, it was real.

Here, in Hidden Valley, with these three friends and these French strangers things seemed normal again. The stillness of the park and the cloudless night sky. Of course, this was not more real than my prior week, but seemed more immediate. More anchored. Truly the entire weekend a needed and welcomed respite, but Hidden Valley its calming center.

We finished the night in Pioneertown at the Red Dog Saloon. Bingo night, a fundraiser for the local animal shelter. Beers and queso imbibed. Our last night all together and our next event yet to be scheduled. It’d be nice to know when we would all see each other again, but we had done much over the busy weekend.

Cole and I had gotten lost wheeling from Landers, through Rattlesnake canyon back into Yucca Valley. Combed through vintage stores looking for old flannels and ridiculous t shirts. We took the long trail from the Park down Berdoo Canyon into Palm Springs, where we visited the Salton Sea and Salvation Mountain. We saw the sign declaring the world’s end in Twentynine Palms; maybe it was coming soon, but not this weekend.

And of course, we celebrate a few birthdays.

We departed in waves. Reese snuck out, off to work, while others slept through the early morning. Cole and Frank back to LA. Brody and I head North, first to Fresno than my final stop in Oakland. A long drive but we had stops planned and conversation to pass the time.

During the drive I started thinking of that confrence again. I told Brody about a demo I saw of the upcoming ChatGPT-5 at my confrence. In the demo someone took a picture of their new bike, a Cervelo, and typed, “How do I adjust the bike seat?” The bot said they would need an Allen wrench. The would-be-biker took a picture of their set, and the bot advised which size, “second to last on the left.” We joked, the tech impressive, but someone who couldn’t figure out which wrench to use was the best use case to demo?

Maybe the sign was right, the world as we knew it was ending — making way for a new strange one.

—

After leaving the strange ghost town Brody was quick to research on his phone. In disbelief he shared his findings: evidently the Chinese Triad has been leasing land in the US to grow weed. It was a regular game of cat and mouse. The FBI would bust an operation in Sac and a new one in would pop up in Johnson Valley. The Triad would traffic humans to the states to work these operations. This seemed even more bizarre to us than a commune. Surly the CCP, with all their surveillance, knew this was happening and seemed to permit it. Did the realtor selling the land know what was going on?

Eight drive hours later and almost home I pulled into a Safeway to get a few groceries to make dinner. My cart pulling maddeningly to the left as I wandered the aisles. Use to the layout of Whole Foods this store was foreign to me. I needed capers but couldn’t find them. The employees hiding it seemed, I had no one to ask. Tired after all the driving, frustrated with the cart wheel, I gave up. I called my mother who spent decades shopping at a Safeway in our hometown. Despite never stepping foot in this store she knew exactly where to find the capers. MomGPT.