Ever heard of Saline Valley? No? No surprise there. Each western state has a few “middle of nowhere” places and Inyo County’s Saline Valley meets all the qualifications, particularly when you factor in hard-to-get-to-itiveness. So where exactly is it? you ask. Along the stretch of Highway 395 ‘twixt Lone Pine and Big Pine, the Sierra Nevada crest dominates the Owens Valley viewscape. Few tourists even know the name of that barren, treeless range to the east: the Inyo Mountains. Well, Saline Valley lies just the other side of the Inyos. Two roads lead there, both unpaved. One enters from the north, the other from the south, and one or the other (sometimes both) can be impassable during the winter due to snow. Both get washed out on occasion by localized flooding during severe thunderstorms. If that weren’t enough, each route is long, washboardy, and full of pointy rocks. Simply making it in to “Saline” is an adventure. So why go there? Part of the pull is its middle-of-nowhere appeal: no towns, no asphalt, no powerlines; nowhere to buy a quart of milk. The valley is surrounded on all sides by desolate desert mountain ranges but most prominently by the east face of the Inyos—a Himalayan-scale wall of rock that drops ten-thousand vertical feet from its crest to the valley floor in a mere seven horizontal miles. Still, Saline Valley’s biggest draw might be for those needing to get away from civilization in a big way and who also enjoy soaking their bones in hot mineral water. ◦◦◦◦◦ Way out in the center of the valley, smack-dab in the middle of the- middle-of-nowhere, is a patch of greenery marking the location of Saline Valley Hot Springs. In the 1960s, visitors started arriving and over time several soaking pools were built. A community of itinerant desert rats were drawn to the place and word spread. ◦◦◦◦◦ I began trekking out to Saline late in 1990, when it was still BLM land and people could legally stay for six months at a stretch. The long-term “residents” all settled at Lower Springs while other visitors tended to congregate half a mile farther up the road at Upper (aka Palm) Spring. At the time this story was written, I was a seasonally employed Forest Service wilderness ranger. Saline was a great place to winter during my time off—relatively warm, with free camping, unlimited hot water, and a fabulous cast of odd characters to hang out with. For over a decade, I’d spend several months in total camped at the springs each year. Then, late in 1994, just months before this story was written, the entire valley was handed over to the National Park Service and added to the new Death Valley NP. It took time but, gradually, things began to change. A ten-day stay limit was imposed, among other restrictions. All the old-timers left, completely altering the Lower Springs ambience. Other folks who’d come out each year for extended stays stopped coming. Also, the word was out (largely thanks to guidebooks and the internet) and there was a sudden influx of newcomers—people having little or no connection to the land or interest in Saline Valley’s history, culture, and customs. Sadly, a lot of the magic fizzled. For me, at least. ◦◦◦◦◦ This story captures some of the spirit of the place, pre-Park Service. It was an absolutely unique scene. And if this Universal Blandification trend goes unchecked, there will never again be anything to match what I used to call “the best free spa on the planet.”
IT’S THE MAGICAL SUNRISE HOUR in Saline Valley. At the very crest of a low rise, steam lifts from the surface of a small natural pond brimming with hot mineral water, fresh from the underworld—The Source, locals call it, reverentially. Forty yards away is a concrete bathing pool in the shape of a hexagon that receives water from The Source via gravity and buried pipe. The pool, about ten feet across, is flanked by several non-native palm trees but otherwise is fully exposed to the world at large. From this prime vantage an array of dramatic vistas present themselves on all sides—open desert country backed by stark-naked mountains in a wide variety of colors and textures. No buildings, paved roads, powerlines or mountain-top antennas to be seen. No permanent man-made structures of any kind, in fact. And all this wide-open space is augmented by an intense quiet, at the moment marred only by a few low voices and the gentle rustling of palm fronds—this, a most pleasant counterpoint to the all-encompassing stillness. Nine or ten souls are having their morning soak, a daily ritual for all. Several chatted with their immediate neighbors while others (me, for one) absorbed the magnificent views in silence. The sun’s shadow line crept inexorably towards the pool, backing away from the now fully lit east face of the Inyo Mountains. Overhead: a sky made up of many blues imperceptibly grading into one another and completely devoid of cloud.
A lean, almost gaunt man with no towel walks up, inquiry written on his weathered face. I’d been observing the stranger’s approach, intrigued by his slow motion Charlie Chaplin-esque gait—a bit of full-body wobble, as if he were limping on both legs; an odd, irresolute quality to it. Even from a distance, there was something about this person that was…a bit off. Even in his walk. He was attired in a threadbare yellow T-shirt (untucked) and a pair of crisp, pristine Levis whose legs were several inches too long. The excess denim was accordianed over the tops of a pair of cheap, faux-Nike high-top basketball shoes like all the kids wear these days. His sneakers’ long laces—untied—were trailing through the fine-as-flour “moondust,” raising tiny dust clouds. Taking in this last, telling clue, I heard these words in my head: Not a good sign. Poolside, the stranger stood looking a little ill at ease, glancing around hesitantly, not meeting anyone’s eye. He reminded me of Ray Bolger (who played Scarecrow in Wizard of Oz). A craggier version; sadder eyed. Other things about him reminded me of the actor and scarecrows in general. I felt this sudden guarded interest tempered by wariness…remembered seeing this oddball out here before but couldn’t recall when or under what circumstances. Others were looking up, expectant, waiting for him to speak.
Finally: “D’any of ya know where I can find the Wizard? They told me he was staying up here somewhere.” All talk ceased. A longish pause. Looks were exchanged. A man, someone I didn’t know, finally volunteered, “Uhh, yeah…that’s his trailer over there by those bushes. I don’t believe he’s up yet. You need something?”
“I wanted to see if I could buy some beer off ‘im.”
This was Presidents Day Weekend, mind you—weekend of the Big Game. Every last opening between bushes was crammed with vehicles and tents and camping gear…holiday revelers galore. The sun was barely up yet there were close to a dozen people in the pool already. (Typically, at this hour there might be three or four.) Several of us spontaneously broke into nervous laughter. The very notion! ‘Buy’ some beer? From the Wizard?! The newcomer was taken aback by our reaction. But see: unwittingly, his query had hit us like some kind of lead-in line to a Saline Valley insider joke. People mostly leave the Wizard alone when he comes out. The idea of knocking on his trailer door—at this hour!—and asking for a favor, no less. Well, it just didn’t seem like something someone would do. Especially with that dog…lurking. The man who’d first spoken up said, chuckling still, “Well, that may take some doing. Don’t know if I’d head over there just yet if I were you—he may be ‘sleeping in.’ He had a big night. But if you do go over, make sure you give Satan a wide berth.” Someone else piped up, “Actually, he’s up. I saw him a minute ago.” The towel-less stranger thanked us and left.
Not three minutes later he shambled back over, shoelaces flip-flapping in his wake. Those of us who’d laughed before laughed again: carrying a can of Bud in one hand and broken six-pack in the other, Scarecrow-man flashed us a wide victory grin with almost child-like glee. No teeth in that mouth, so far as I could tell. (Another bad sign….) He tipped his head way back for a long pull, Adam’s apple bobbing. Glug glug glug. Judging by the can’s tilt, two-thirds of it were down the hatch already.
He set his beers down, pulled a rumpled pack of cigarettes and lighter out of a back pocket, stripped, and slid into the crowded pool—the last open spot, the one where the low morning sun and its harsh glare blasts right in your face. Scarecrow-man’s wiry physique was unexpectedly athletic-looking, tanned and toned with well-defined muscles. His body was that of a thirty-year-old but the face part looked fifty; it was hard to gauge his age. Longish, curly brown hair with some gray. A four- or five-day growth of beard (more gray), hollow cheeks. Dark, deep-set eyes; deep furrows fanning from their corners—his overall appearance signifying a life of sorrow and disappointment, end result of a troubled childhood and subsequent string of bad decisions. Surely some jail time. Even that odd shuffling walk spoke of a rough life.
As soon as he’d slipped in, Scarecrow lit up a Doral. After a minute, the guy he’d first spoken to asked, grinning, “Well, how’d you pull that off?!”
“Oh, I just ‘borrowed’ it.” His voice had a soft edge, possibly a consequence of having no teeth. “I’m heading to Bishop today for more.”
At those words, several soakers perked right up. (Thinking: A town run! More beer! And ice!) Beer and ice, you understand, are precious commodities in Saline. Lots of folks, especially those who come out to party hearty on these long holiday weekends, fail to anticipate their actual needs and bring not near enough of either. Suddenly the stranger was being hit up with questions and offers. When are you leaving? Hasty arrangements and impetuous promises were made. Brand new friends expressed concern that Scarecrow not leave without their requests and cash—We’ll give you money for gas, of course!—and said they’d meet him down the road around nine. This guy would have enough gas money to drive to LA and back. Could you maybe take my cooler?
Sitting across the pool in a patch of shade cast by one of the palms I watched him settle back and start on his second beer and smoke. Saline Valley gets its fair share of hardcore drinker-smoker types. This one seemed cheerful enough and might turn out to be fairly harmless. But no—not the case. Nope. Scarecrow promptly raised the hackles of every single person in the pool by spouting some certifiably wacky notions.
Everything seemed fine; run of the mill pool talk—strangers searching for common ground and mutual interests, just being friendly. A woman seated near me, Barbara, was asked where she lived and what she did for a living. Barbara says she lives in Tehachapi; makes a long commute to Bakersfield where she has a cushy job working for Cal State University as the university’s OSHA coordinator. Pretty unobjectionable. But at the mention of OSHA, Scarecrow’s face went sneer-y and he rolled his eyes. Another person asked, “But what is it you actually do?” Barbara reeled off a few things—‘proper disposal of toxic wastes’ being one—and Scarecrow leapt in, claiming that the whole deal about said materials was a complete fantasy (my words); a government plot (his words). “There are no ‘toxic wastes.’ It’s ridiculous! What about Japan? We dropped those bombs on ‘em. That stuff is supposed to last millions of years but there’s people filling those cities again and they’re not sick!” (I later learned that Scarecrow hails from Trona—a mining town in the Mojave known for its smoke-belching chemical plants, broad-spectrum toxicity, and epidemic drug abuse.) Normally an outburst of this sort would initiate heated debate, but his claims were so preposterous and tendered with such vitriol that no one even attempted to reply. The mundane chatter of just moments before died on the vine. People turned instead to hushed one-on-one exchanges.
Conversation did pick up again. After Scarecrow’s outburst you could tell that everyone had written him off as some kind of nut-job. Just like that, he was shut out—an outcast, a pool-pariah. Then some other guy took pity and let Scarecrow back into the group banter by asking him a question; even called him by name: Richard. For some reason, this shocked me. Richard just didn’t seem to go with the persona. Richards are nice, normal, orderly, well-behaved people. He seemed more like a Ray or a Joe or even a Steve. Or that he’d go by some redneckish biker nickname. But not Richard.
A bit later, more discord. I saw the whole thing: Scarecrow Richard, now working on his third Budweiser and fifth Doral (four butts in a heap on the edge of the pool), began staring intently at a young man seated across from him. The young man and his girlfriend were taking turns sipping from a quart jar of apple juice. Out of the blue, no longer able to contain his revulsion, Scarecrow said to this kid, “I don’t see how you can drink that stuff!”—said this while shaking his head from side to side in obvious disgust. It was exactly the sort of thing some drunk, chip-on-his-shoulder cowboy in a dive bar does when they’re looking for a fight and absolutely anyone will do. In the face of this completely unprovoked insult, the young man kept his cool and responded in an even tone, “Apple juice is good,” adding, after a well-timed pause, “I can’t imagine drinking beer before breakfast.” To this, Scarecrow responded, “All I drink is beer. Been doing it for twenty years.” (Proof positive that beer is a healthy and nutritious breakfast food.) End of conversation. Wow. I probably wasn’t the only one in the tub thinking to myself, Is this guy saying he never drinks water? Literally, only beer? Well, aside from looking weather-worn and having no teeth, Scarecrow did appear to be pretty darn fit.
THERE ARE TWO BIG ANNUAL ‘EVENTS’ at Saline Valley Hot Springs: a Thanksgiving shindig and the Presidents Day Weekend softball game. Both, long traditions and the springs, never more crowded. Two hundred souls might show up for the time-honored November feast or midwinter baseball (also accompanied by feasting). The Big Game draws people from as far away as Alaska. Some come by plane, landing their little tail-dragger, single-prop Cessnas on a crude airstrip just west of Lower Springs known as the Chicken Strip (as in, We did two fly-bys, saw all those ruts and rocks, and chickened out). Any time a plane comes in for a landing, everybody stops what they’re doing to watch.
Every third Monday in February it’s the Upper Spring “Misfits” versus the Lower Springs “Skins.” The intensity of this Skins-Misfits rivalry might come as a surprise if you don’t understand the circumstances. It’s like this: under unique circumstances, two transitory encampments have grown up around a pair of desert hot springs separated by half a mile of dusty dirt road; two distinct communities, apparently just far enough apart to have formed independent identities.
And thus, a friendly sports rivalry was born. You see, both encampments have their own culture and ethos. This deserves a little explanation, for perspective.
Lower Springs has long been the place where those who stay for extended periods reside; some, as per BLM [Bureau of Land Management] rules, for the maximum allowed six months. These individuals are, in effect, migratory permanent residents living amid the screwbean mesquite and arrow weed thickets in an assortment of vintage trailers, campers-on-jacks, and decrepit RVs spread over maybe an acre—like a kind of low-rent retirement village. Some of their rigs are left here all year, moved to a sort of long-term storage lot at the camp’s fringes during the off season (that is, the hot months, when daytime temperatures become unbearable). Those who call Saline Valley home for half the year fall into these categories: retired, partially disabled, more or less unemployable, or none of the above. They include high-functioning alcoholics, half-crazies, quarter-crazies, libertarians, and other societal dropouts all shapes and sizes. A few seem to be completely normal. None of them are what you’d call young. There are a couple of couples. The core group forms the beating heart of a mutually supportive, mobile village. Many are close friends who’ve known each other for ages. But there are also plenty of transient visitors on close terms with the long-termer old-timers.
In terms of amenities, Lower Springs is well-appointed: three hot soaks to choose from plus a sunken bathtub and two showers—all fed by the Lower Spring’s version of The Source. There’s also a lukewarm cool-pool fed by a separate spring. Picnic tables; a fire pit encircled by padded benches; lawn chairs; a dishwashing station with sink and drying rack. (Scrubbies and dish soap are supplied by visitors.) There’s even a small lending library of donated books and magazines in a crude cabinet whose plywood doors are kept shut at night lest roving burros consume the paperbacks (which—fun fact—they prefer over glossy magazines and hard-cover books). Adjacent to the fire pit is the magnificent cement-and-inlaid-rock Crystal Pool—a genuine work of art, built in the ‘70s, that easily holds a dozen people. A perpetually watered crabgrass lawn is bordered by native mesquite trees and introduced palms. The entire common area is virtually surrounded by arrow weed, an indigenous shrub. Occasional discreet trimming has transformed the arrow weed thickets into a hedge-like windbreak that makes being outside feasible during those not-infrequent violent wind storms. All this managed vegetation provides shade and shelter and lends the place a desert-cozy, welcoming vibe. A sizable dug-out pond at the lower end of the lawn is fed by cooled-down tub runoff. The pond is home to a couple of coots, a school of jumbo goldfish, and crawdads that subsist on pan-scrapings that go down the dishwashing sink’s drain. As for the human scene: there’s much socializing, in and out of the soaks—particularly at night—with guitars and other stringed instruments and singing ‘round the campfire on a regular basis. Music nights can be extraordinary, with talented players and singers creating magic in the desert. On occasion, some hero will bring in a load of firewood, albeit of the construction site scrap-wood variety. There’s no garbage service and no trash receptacles but you’ll never see garbage laying around—not even cigarette butts. The place is scrupulously kept clean and tended to by users. Pools are all drained and cleaned daily.
I’ll mention just two of the long term residents, the ones who are indispensible to the smooth running of the place: Major Tom is camp host, whether official or semi-official I don’t know. He’s the one with the short-wave radio that allows contact with higher authorities in emergencies. Tom assists first-timers, shows them the ropes, answers questions, coordinates volunteer projects, and keeps the peace. Mammoth Bob lives in an old Bluebird Bus at the outskirts of the camping area. He mostly stays to himself, seldom comes over to soak, and doesn’t talk much when he does. A welder by trade, he has all the equipment in his camp and all the tools. If anyone has a vehicular problem or full-on breakdown, Mammoth Bob will fix it, even if it means a trip or two to civilization for parts.
In contrast, Upper Spring is much less developed, having few permanent structures. It tends to be occupied by people who stay for a weekend or a week (though some stay for a month or more). Campsites are situated among open, mixed “groves” of creosote and desert holly and burro bush encircling the even more sparsely vegetated white hillock known as The Mound, where The Source and soaking pools are situated. The sites themselves, set back some distance from the top of The Mound, are little more than parking spots with a fire-ring or two. Aside from a few bushes, they’re entirely in the open with uninterrupted 360° views of naked limestone or granite mountains, lava flows, and broad valley vistas to make up for lack of cover and shade. People who camp “up top” appreciate desert austerity. They prefer being surrounded by nature and exposure to the elements (e.g., wind and blowing dust) over the softer, more social scene “down below.” Visitors on average are younger…more physically active; like to take hikes and embark on day-long exploratory jaunts to go along with their pool-time.
But note (and this is crucial): everyone who comes to Saline Valley recognizes and prizes a numinous, some would call it magical quality this place has—an amalgam of austere landscapes; spaciousness on a grand scale; the exotic sound of complete silence; the enchanting star-sparkled night skies unmarred by artificial light. Unmarred, that is, aside from occasional headlights snaking down the long grade from South Pass. This is a thing all Saliners partake of: the unique sensation that comes with gazing at those far-off headlights and instantaneously grokking how the weary, over-jangled travelers feel; how anxious they are to arrive but still two hours out; how ready they are just to be there. It adds one more layer to the feeling of hard-earned isolation that unites us all. Always bear this in mind—simply getting into or out of Saline Valley is an adventure unto itself and a big part of the Saline Experience.
Visitors tend to have strong camping preferences and often have a cherished campsite they’ll use when it’s available. As a rule, people favor one spring over. This partiality can be quite fervent; a few of the Upper Springers actually seem to have hard feelings—a low-level resentment directed toward what they see as a privileged few laying claim to the choicest Lower Springs sites, occupying them for months at a time. Also, some feel ill at ease around the pervasive drinking and smoking that goes on down below…the chronic cases who get smashed every night—these things, along with a cliquish chumminess among the long-termers. I’ve heard Upper Spring campers voice their antipathy a few times now, saying things like, “I’d never camp down there!” (Well, no one’s going to force you!) As for the Lower Springs folk: if they have any bad feelings regarding Upper Spring people as a whole, I’m not aware of it. Why would they?
Many of us enjoy soaking in all the pools—each has its distinguishing qualities and cherished features. We make our rounds up the road and down, taking advantage of early sun or better sunset views or to get some much-needed shade. And all the Lower Springs soaks are better when the wind blows. It so happens that there are a number of campsites along the road between the two springs. Some folks—I’m one of them—prefer camping in this middle zone expressly for overall ease of access. (Hot tip: having a bike makes this a snap.) Plus, there’s the added benefit of being away from the densely packed camping areas: less clamor, more privacy (no snoring neighbor twenty feet away...) and you get to enjoy the magnificent capital-Q Quiet.
To sum up, the two communities are another of Saline Valley’s notable features: villages separated by a mere half mile, each with its own quirky identity and rustic charms. Both are smoothly functioning anarchies—functioning anarchies being rare birds indeed. Some bright-eyed sociology post grad working toward a PhD could come stay for a spell and write their thesis, a case study demonstrating how neighboring modern-day tribes interface, far from the tumult of our “advanced” “civilization.”
And, circling back to the annual softball game: in common with all sporting events, part of its gut-level appeal is rooted in a universal, Darwinian us-against-them competitiveness. The microcosmic Saline Valley rivalry is embodied by the teams’ respective honorary captains—both, long-time Saliners. Both of them passionate as regards America’s Favorite Pastime. And both, incurable alcoholics.
“Chili Bob” captains the Skins. He’s one of only a handful of people who live in Saline year-round. Chili ostensibly care takes one of the valley’s few private inholdings but seems to spend most of his time here at the springs. The first time we “met” was right at the start of my second or third visit. At the end of the long drive I was easing into Lower Springs and standing by the road was this old man who looked like a shriveled-up pirate. Easing past him in first gear, we locked eyes. He was staring at me with a malevolent scowl. I recall being thoroughly creeped-out at the time but later on realized that Chili just happened to be standing there, checking out a fresh arrival—likely thinking to himself, Oh! It’s somebody new!—and may have just been squinting in the glare as he peered through my windshield to see who it might be.
Chili is a Viet Nam vet subsisting on a medical disability. I have no idea if he saw combat or if his disability, whatever it might be, is war-related. He’s been a fixture in the valley since the early ‘80s. Wizened and leathery with an old-at-heart vibe and all-over tan, he could easily pass for seventy. I was quite shocked—more like disturbed—upon learning that he’s not yet fifty. Chili, it turns out, is a mild-mannered, unassuming drunkard who’s committing slow-motion suicide, surrounded by caring friends in a place with a healthful climate. People say he was almost done in by a particularly nasty divorce. And if he saw combat in Viet Nam, no telling what that did to him. But I really don’t know the man’s story. His standing facial expression is a sullen frown that may just reflect how he feels, physically. Someone who didn’t know better, seeing Chili Bob for the first time, might take him to be a malevolent, perhaps even evil person. But once you hear Chili speak or see him buzzed, laughing and smiling, you can see that he’s just one of those sorry cases—a beat-down and broken man, basically a gentle soul who’s had more of life’s hard knocks than he can take. To make life bearable, Chili smokes nonstop and drinks a case of the cheapest beer money can buy. Every day. That’s right—a case. Every day of the week, including Sundays. And, as if that weren’t enough, he transitions to wine-in-a-box at night. He must barely eat. Or sleep. I’ve seen his skeletal frame in the Crystal pool not long after sunrise with half a dozen folded-in-half empties by his side—fresh can in one hand, cigarette in the other, a sizable pile of butts in the ashtray at his elbow. Chili’s social life revolves around his Lower Springs friends. I have no idea how he ended up with the desert-handle but assume he can whip up a mean pot of chili. I’ve spoken to the man maybe twice. He seems to be well liked. People look after him. Everyone knows that Chili Bob is hastening toward his end; self-annihilation at a nice, relaxed pace befitting the surroundings.
In stark contrast, “The Wizard” is vital and outgoing at seventy-four. This distinctly unwizardlike character drinks as hard as Chili though not at such a steady pace (and doesn’t smoke), opting instead for a more typical nightly blitz, enduring morning-after hangovers as a matter of course. These he treats hair-of-dog fashion, rising early and carrying a few Buds over to the pool to take the edge off during his morning soak. Come evening, he augments the beer with E&J brandy. Casual visitors and greenhorn newcomers refer to him as The Wizard; informal acquaintances as just plain “Wizard.” Acquaintances of long standing (I find it difficult to imagine him having actual friends) use his Christian name—Walt. I have no idea how or why he got his desert-handle but hear tell that he’s been coming to the springs for fifty years now—far longer than anyone in living memory. I don’t know the man’s last name, where he lives, or how he made a living but someone told me he used to breed Rottweilers. (I’d like to know: For profit or just for fun?) Rumor has it that he first came to Saline to procure the feral burros for dog food. This tale inspired gruesome mental imagery of a younger, pre-Wizard Walt arriving back home in some beat-up Ford truck, its bed loaded down with donkey corpses…legs poking up every which way…blood dripping from the tailgate…leathery shanks, rudely hacked off and tossed into a kennel full of howling Rottweilers.
Wizard Walt started camping by The Source long before any pools were built or any of the palm trees were planted. He achieved lasting fame here in the valley and beyond by heading up construction of the beloved “wizard pool” back in the early ‘70s. Fifty yards to its west, the original soak—the “volcano pool”—is relatively crude in comparison (a free-form concrete-and-rock structure, its walls built up above ground). Walt’s masterpiece is flush with the ground and straight-of-line; a four-foot-deep sunken concrete pool in the shape of a geometric hexagon about ten feet across with an encircling flat “bench” two feet below the rim, the whole thing finished with smooth, easy-on-the-butt cement. It’s bordered by an oval concrete pad inlaid with smooth stones pulled from the adjoining wash, plus a bench of wooden planks atop cemented-rock “legs”—a boon when you’re putting your shoes back on. Everything about the wizard pool is carefully thought-out. It was built with close attention to aesthetics; is easy to drain and clean—a daily ritual taken on by congenitally helpful users—and is dearly loved by one and all for its elegance and situation, vista-wise (not to mention the healing hundred-and-whatever-degree Earthwater). Several scruffy palms provide oasis ambience and shade at certain hours. The net result is an enticing spa, free to all who come—in fact, one of the best “free” things ever. Something money can’t buy.
So it is that the wizard of Saline turned into local celebrity: a near-mythical figure, seldom present, held in great esteem by people he’s never even met…people who are awed by the very name; who envision an enigmatic personage possessing vague, low-level supernatural powers. But Walt is neither sorcerer nor wise man. And those who picture a kindly paternal figure building the pool with a shovel and two bare hands will be sadly disappointed when they finally make Walt’s acquaintance: the legendary Wizard is a lanky, cantankerous, stubble-chinned old man with boozey eyes. During daylight hours and well into the night, Walt drinks many a can of Budweiser beer. After sundown, he gets into the brandy and gets loud. Up until just the last year or so you’d see him go off on his morning jog—an early run to shake the hangover. Drunk or half-sober, he still pitches a mean game of horseshoes. (I’ve watched him throw double-ringers in the clutch.) But this much can be said: Walt did in fact lead the crew that built a pool according to his plan and in keeping with the vision. More recently, Walt and a few helpers contrived a shower and dishwashing station near his namesake pool—all without pre-approval from or even the knowledge of BLM authorities. I can almost hear Walt’s gruff voice saying these words: “Better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.” (It would be just like him.) He always camps in his spot right next to The Source, leaving it meticulously cleaned and raked before leaving. Dog poop—gone. No one but Wizard Walt ever camps there. No one would dare. It’s likely where he parked on his first visit, back when he’d be the sole person staying at either spring. He has a son who sometimes comes along. No idea if he’s still married—it seems unlikely but…you never know. He often brings his scary Rottweiler for companionship. Satan is forever left chained to the bumper of Walt’s little trailer to forestall the slaughter of innocent children and loose dogs. (I’ve never once seen that hell-dog not tied up.)
So Walt, who’s been camping at his spot longer than most Saliners have been alive, captains the Misfits—as near as I can tell, not out of any sort of tribal fidelity. He just likes to play softball…takes pleasure in winning. As captains, both Chili Bob and Wizard Walt pitch for their respective teams. But the two of them only take token innings these days. Another tradition is Walt bringing with him the fixings for a big post-game barbeque: hotdogs, burgers, chicken…the works. “Food’s free. Bring your own beer,” he says in his brusque fashion. (These are his words.) He’s a tough old wrinkle-necked codger; a forceful personality, opinionated. I believe he’s also a military vet. An old-school sink-or-swim do-er who “don’t want to hear no bellyachin’.” The Saline Valley’s only wizard is a true individualist who’s always done what he damn-well pleased and “screw ‘em if they don’t like it.” (These, again, are things I can imagine him saying.) He’s probably led a very interesting life and was good at whatever it was he did. Does.
TO BE CONTINUED...
©2022 Tim Forsell (DRAFT) 23 Feb 1995,15 Dec 2022
