Three Exhausted, Soggy Refugees Wash Up on the Shores of Yucca Valley
Editorial Update: A surprise flash flood moved us into our new apartment a little early!
Here's a riddle! What do you get when you cross a torrential downpour with a hilly expanse of thirsty desert?
Killed. You get killed.
It's a trick question. You don't cross at all. If you try, you could easily get swept away.
In fact, when rain is gushing down faster than the parched sand and the very deep root systems below can absorb it, temporary rivers are created where previously there were only hills and fields. These are called arroyos, or washes. And when the rushing waters are strong enough and deep enough, they carve through the landscape, bulldozing new paths where none existed before and leaving paved roads submerged.
When it's that bad, stern state troopers and kindly old-timers alike will stop your car and warn you that trying to cross those coursing rapids will kill you - even if one or two of the washes are keeping you from advancing just a quarter mile to your home.
That's what happened to our family last night.
Yesterday, Dave, Jasmine, and I spent our first night in our new apartment! But we hadn't planned to. And we absolutely were not ready - nor was it.
It all started in the middle of Sunday afternoon. Dave had just finished work for the day. We loaded up each of our cars to take a second load of belongings to the new apartment we'd just rented in Yucca Valley, about half an hour away from our RV desert hideaway in Twentynine Palms. As we packed the cars, we noted that the sky was full of puffy, white clouds. They gave us a blessed respite from 100° heat. But there was only a 20% chance of rain, and rain almost never hits our particular patch of desert.
As we drove away, though, I saw some patches of sky behind us with an ugly, greenish, bruised look. The white clouds had vanished. I wondered idly whether hail would fall.
After a half-hour drive, we pulled up to the apartment at Indio Ave and dragged several boxes and bags inside. Dave's car had been stuffed with our adored giant beanbag, and he gamely extracted it from his trunk and dragged it through the living room into the bedroom.
Along with exactly one sturdy side chair, purchased by me earlier that day, and one camping chair we already had, the beanbag represented the sum total of furniture in the apartment.
After Jasmine had happily sniffed around and exchanged tentative barks with the neighbor dogs, we congratulated ourself on a good second trip and hopped back in our cars. Since there was no internet at Indio Ave and no furniture, we weren't expecting to stay here yet. Rather, we intended to move all of the smaller things as quickly as possible, then rent a U-Haul to deal with all the furniture in one go. Then, later, we'd purchase anything else we needed.
Driving home, the sky was darkening even in Yucca Valley. Crossing through Joshua Tree and into Twentynine Palms, it started to look really bad. The sky was so dark and full of swirling sand that it blended into the mountain range - obscuring it entirely in places. I love rainstorms, but I don't love driving in them. Nervous, I felt my stomach begin to roil.
Our cars had gotten separated because I had wanted to stop for ice at a gas station. Ice! I thought. There's probably ice all over the ground at home. Not that I would eat it, of course, but …
I turned onto Lear Road, a six-mile, up-and-down stretch where the locals seem to have decided that the speed limit is 75, not the 55 mph that's posted. As I glided through what I thought was a shallow puddle, waves of water shot up past my windows.
I felt a shiver up my back. The radio station in Joshua Tree is always playing public-service reminders of how deadly desert floods can be.
I'd better call Dave and see if he's okay, I thought. At that moment, though, he called me.
“I just wanted to tell you to avoid taking Lear!” he yelled into the phone. I heard water falling. “It's flooded out pretty bad!”
“Yes,” I said faintly. “I'm on it. But I'll get off!”
“Get off Lear! Go another way!”
I white-knuckled it for another mile or two until a safe opportunity came to turn. This time, I climbed uphill, knowing that this was not an area that would flood. Twice, I stopped dead in the lane for fire trucks and ambulances to pass. The sand was too wet, too soft, for me to pull over onto the shoulder of the road.
Finally I approached Morongo Road, the long downhill slope that leads directly to the military base, and, about a mile before that, to the dirt road we live on. So far, so good, I thought, as I crept along, 15 miles under the speed limit. It was certainly drenched, but it wasn't flooded out.
I crested one of the many low hills, about a minute away from my turn-off. I was feeling optimistic. Until suddenly, a river stretched out before me, raging from one side of the road to the other. I could see the water frothing white.
Oh, Lord. What do I do? It might not be as deep as it looked, but then again, it might be deeper. With no one nearby, I sat dumbly, my foot on the brake, trying to think.
Never attempt to cross a flooded wash, warned the voice of the DJ at KCDZ.
In a panicked fog, I texted Dave: There's a wash that I'm crossing and I don't know whether to do it or not. The sentence didn't even make sense. But the only other way to go was via Lear, and he himself had told me not to.
Finally a pair of headlights approached. I watched to see what the driver would do. As the vehicle got closer, I saw that it was a huge truck, elevated very high off the ground, almost a monster truck. Carefully, the driver inched through the water and came to a stop beside me. The grizzled old man at the wheel motioned for me to put my window down.
“Turn! Around!” he wheezed. “If this wash don't kill you, the one past Pole Line will!”
I did, indeed, need to go past Pole Line Road.
“That's all's that I'm doing, is driving up and down telling people! In sedans! To turn around! It'll carry you off!”
Shocked, I nodded my thanks and pulled my car into a three-point turn. Openly flouting California state law, I called Dave, the phone pressed to my ear.
“I think we have to go back to Yucca Valley,” I told him. “It’s flooded and we can't cross.”
He wasn't happy. We agreed to meet at a nearby Subway on high ground to discuss our options.
At the Subway, we paused to eat sandwiches, reasoning that, if we gave it half an hour, the water might recede. I was eager to go back to Yucca Valley and the Indio Ave apartment, but Dave did not have his work equipment, which he need for the next day. And neither of us had our medication.
And, oh yeah - the apartment was not ready yet!
We conceived, then quickly abandoned a scheme by which we'd take back roads to approach our property from the the north, and Dave would walk the thousand feet to the RV. Needing to drive down dirt roads meant it was way too dangerous even to try: in Dave's tiny car, we were likely to get stuck in the soft sand. Or worse.
We decided to approach via Morongo, the only entrance available by car, one more time. We weren't thinking about the mile of soft sand we'd then have to traverse, even if we could get past the washes on Morongo.
But we didn't have to. This time, as we drove down, we were met almost immediately by a state trooper’s SUV. He flicked his lights at us and, as we passed, held his forearms out in front of him in an X.
The message was clear. We made another three-point turn and began the trip back to Indio Ave in Yucca Valley.
“Can we just catch a break?” Dave moaned.
“I think the break is that we have another safe, dry home to go, and we don't have to check into a hotel,” I tried to point out without sounding preachy. I don't know if it worked.
When we got here, we carefully made a list of supplies. Much as I wanted to, I did not buy towels to use that night; I didn't buy a bath mat or a set of dishes or or a fiberboard coffee table from the Walmart across the street. I certainly did not buy a couple of floor lamps or lawn chairs or a nice, big canvas print to make things feel a little homier.
I bought hygiene supplies, hand soap, and some banana nut muffins for the next morning. The plan was to get up around 5:45 and head back to the RV so Dave could start work at the appointed time.
When I returned, though, Dave was on the phone.
“Oh, that would be amazing,” he was saying. “Oh, absolutely. Definitely. I'll - I'll leave right now. About half an hour. Thank you!”
“What was that?” I asked.
Our neighbor, Tony, an absolute MVP, had offered to pick Dave up from a safe parking place in his elevated 4x4, ferry him through the water to the RV, where Dave could collect his work equipment, our meds, charging cords, and other essentials, and then bring him back to his car.
It was dark. I knew we needed those items, but I was terrified the entire hour and a half he was gone.
When Dave came back, he told me our road was unrecognizable. The rushing water had apparently carved three-foot drop-offs into the road. Tony, who has taken on the responsibility of grading the road we live on, says it could be a few days before our sedans can get through.
I went back to Walmart for some groceries. We played records, chatted, and watched Jasmine explore before falling asleep together, in an exhausted heap, on top of the beanbag.
Dave and I have experienced a desert flood before. That time, though, we were stranded at the RV, not prevented from accessing it. Being here at our new Indio Ave residence is much better! We'll see how long it takes before the RV in 29 is accessible: most of our possessions are still there, after all. But in the meantime, I'll see if I can talk the Editor-in-Chief into a couple of lawn chairs, at least!
Just look at this beautiful yard! Don't you agree it deserves to be enjoyed? 😉