I have always been enamored with places abandoned, discarded and forgotten. Earlier this week, we took a short detour away from our vacation in Palm Springs, California to experience what most would consider “the other side of paradise.” 50 miles outside of Palm Springs, amidst the Sonoran Desert is the Salton Sea. It’s actually a “lake”. Though, I suspect the notion of a “tranquil desert sea” carried with it much more profitable connotations piquing the interests of, and eventually bilking the fortunes of the properties investors. During the early 1900’s, California engine
ers originally intended to route water from the Colorado River into the drought prone area through narrow irrigation canals. Though, as it turns out, when you play God with natures geology and ecology, over time, you will end up with mixed blessings. The most concentrated community around the Salton Sea’s perimeter is Bombay Beach. A one square mile patch of mostly mobile homes. Many of which have been long abandoned. Bombay Beach is a bleak, bizarre, ghost town which once held tremendous promise as a luxury beach resort. As we travelled the dirt roads of the township, you couldn’t help but notice the sheer number of abandoned homes, along with the pseudo post-apocalyptic messages graffitied about by former homeowners. In a few instances, I can only presume residents hightailed it out of the county, as a handful torched their trailers with a molotov cocktail, as if to say “this town can kiss my ass”.
HARD TO BREATH
As we plough our way up a narrow embankment once used to load boats onto the beach, I notice the driveway chain has been snapped. I rationalize we can claim ignorance if we’re caught trespassing. Upon arrival to the sea shore, you are welcomed by swarms of flies and embraced by palatable stench o f sourness. The odour is an overpowering combination of sulphur and saline. Nuclear tears. The humidity of the waterfront combined with the 40+ degree celsius heat makes the air heavy to breath. In the distant horizon, you can see a dust storm forming. Those furloughing along one, of what I’m guessing, are a few hundred local golf courses blame the Salton Sea for creating breezy rifts in their game, by somehow upsetting the natural weather balance of the neighboring manufactured landscapes. I’ve read how locals contend the Salton Sea’s water is said to be both toxic, yet healing. The fishing is plentiful, though, I’m told none are considered edible. The sea’s salinity is greater than any ocean. As is the waters bacterial measurements. Proposals to redirect the water to Mexico have been put on the table - but of course the proposition of filtering and desalinating the water would be a potentially arduous, and expensive process. And seriously, doesn’t the tap water in Mexico have enough problems already?
NO PLACE FOR A LIFEBOAT
Sweat pours from my brow as I walk along the shore and take photos. I know what I am documenting could bring some form of shame to the town of roughly 300 souls. Somehow, this place, it’s story, seems important. We all have been emotionally contaminated, yet somehow remain beautiful. The Salton Sea is perhaps a metaphor for god knows what… Perhaps a cautionary tale of lost hope. A sort of crossroads of paradise and prison. Perhaps a place for redemption and second chances. The water just might be thick enough for even the worst sinner to walk upon.
UNSEA
In the distance, I hear our SUV door slam shut. I see my daughter, Joy-Mai approaching, despite my order for her to stay in the car. It’s easy to forgive the infraction - as a kid, I never did what I was told either. She is also naturally curious and doesn’t weigh the risk of exploration. I notice she has wisely re-purposed her ear plugs into nose plugs. I command her not to step foot on the shore as I fear she will, by some mystical osmosis, absorb the sea’s aura of despair. I have already concluded I will never be able to un-see what I’ve already taken in. I press forward to get at least a few more photos of the evaporating lake. I remind myself how studies suggest the Salton Sea is said to all but vanish in the next few years. I feel justified in my expedition. Fish bones crack under my feet as I walk the beach. Thousands of dead, rotting, tilapia and what I think are catfish lay along the shore as far as the eye can see. I feel sand, water and tiny pieces of brittle fishbone fall into the sleeve of my already damp, sockless shoes. It hurts. A lot. The sharp pain of each step is a foreboding omen unleashed into my gut. Something tells me we’ve overstayed our welcome. My wife, Dawna-Lynne is waiting in the rental SUV. As in the past, she opts to serve as a lookout while I trespass for material. I hustle back to the vehicle, skirting my daughters plethora of inquiries about how this paradise lost came to be. My feet hurt. I want to empty my shoes. I walk on until I’m inside the SUV. As we pull out of the driveway of the beach front, a squad car lights up and flags us to pull over, not eight meters from the road leading back to the highway. The jig was already up, clearly he was waiting for us to make our getaway. The lone patrolman approaches the vehicle and informs my wife she was driving down a one way street. Somehow, I don’t suspect traffic accidents are an issue along these abandoned dirt roads. As he gathers our ID’s, he eyeballs the camera in my lap. After returning to his vehicle and presumably running our ID’s, he returns to warn us to “be careful” and indicates he is letting us off with a “warning”. Reading between the lines, I know he’s asked us to leave without really demanding us to. Clearly someone had called him to investigate my misled curiosity. Somehow, I suspect the notion of him being recorded by my camera may have inadvertently gotten us off the hook. I’m shaken. Not so much because of the cops invitation to leave, but more-so because of the haunting air of despair tI’ve subjected my family, particularly my daughter to, in those few short moments on the shore.
HOPE IN THE RUINS
As we head back to Palm Springs, I review the photos on my camera screen, I see a tranquil photo of some birds gliding across the water. I come across an overexposed photo of a pair of shoes on the beach. In another photo, I read a sticker reminding us to “Live a Great Story”. Everything means something… Nothing is wasted.
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