Prickly Pairs

Noon-ish was early enough -- we did not have to fight a hundred miles of commute traffic. We had a nice low-stress drive out to the edge of urbanity on the far side of San Bernardino and Redlands. Only a few fucktard moron drivers deserved being screamed at. Only a few truckers tried to murder us.

Carol tapped at her little Sony Vaio mini-laptop as we drove along and chatted about life, the kids and their schoolwork, our friends, all that sort of stuff. A little talk, a bit of keyboarding.

"It's the Little Mac account, that's what we call it. We're contracted by the California Macadamia Board for a marketing plan to make macadamias the most popular nuts around. Peanuts are going down, but almonds are on the rise, and so are pistachios -- those are the competition."

"You must be nuts to take this job," I joked. She sent me a not-funny grin. "Okay, so you've heard that one before. Macadamias? Really? Do they even grow in California?"

"They sure do, but not a lot. Most are from Australia, then Hawai'i, then Central America and other places. The board thinks boosting demand for macs from anywhere will help the growers here. That's our job. I'm just trying some ideas. Hmmm..." She tapped the keyboard again.

"Well, they taste good, sure, but so does lots of other stuff that doesn't sell much." I twitched the wheel to slip around a slow pickup.

"There's more than just cocktail nuts and snacks. They make mac flour -- you have GOT to taste honey-macadamia pancakes! -- mac milk, mac butter, mac cheese -- that one isn't so great -- mac candies, yeah, all sorts of shit. But there's just not much public awareness of all that. Yes, that's our job. Grab eyeballs and minds."

"So you're doing an ad strategy? That doesn't sound like your usual focus."

"No, not traditional advertising. The mac board wanted some cute slogan like Mac Snack Attack or I'm Nuts For Macs, really zip-head stuff, plastered on TV and billboards. That's so twentieth-century! No, we'll do a viral campaign on the Net. Set up friendly, casual web-logs; subtly infiltrate newsgroups and forums and chatrooms -- but no junk mail, no spam; that's chickenshit. Make it look grassroots, spontaneous, organic, with recipe clubs and idea sessions, all very low-key."

"And it'll be an internet-only campaign? Has anyone tried that before?"

"A few. We track how others try this. The nice thing is, it's really, really cheap. No expensive media buys, no shotgun mass-targeting. It's more like creating atmosphere. Build an environment where macs are a given, a staple. Macadamias on every shopping list."

"So how do you build atmosphere?" I looked at the smog-thick troposphere surrounding us and envisaged nut vapor.

"There are a million approaches possible -- and we can try them ALL, almost for free! Each tactic gets its own tryout. Change a few words and images and measure the reaction. Keep what works and shitcan what doesn't. Our software generates automated postings that feel personal. An AI program reads responses and tailors replies, or calls for human help. That's really the only expense and we offshore it. Oh, hey..." and she tapped the keys again.

Tall mountains surrounded us when we were interrupted. Carol pulled the crackling VHF radio from its dashboard mount. "Say again, Alice, I didn't catch that."

"I said, we could use a break. Let's stop by the dinosaurs in Cabazon."

"Gotcha, we'll take the Cabazon exit. See you under the bronto." Well, it was actually a 150-foot-long hollow concrete Apatosaurus. There is no such creature as a Brontosaurus, but that was the label when they built it.

I rolled our sand-beige Land Cruiser next to the rest rooms. Ted's red Sequoia pulled up right behind us. The women hopped over to the toilets. Ted and I stretched and looked at the dinos -- big Dinny (think, Alley Oop) and the tall T.Rex.

Cabazon is barely a village in a deep gap between tall mountain ranges, the San Bernardinos to the north and the San Jacintos on the south side. The dinosaurs had dominated the freeway roadside for decades, until the Morongo band of Cahuilla Indians built a multi-story casino-resort nearby.

"I'll never forget the first time I stopped here with Alice," Ted said. He swigged from a can of soda and waved at Dinny. "Back before we were married. I took her along to a realtor's conference in Palm Springs. We got here from L.A. and she needed a piss break, same as today. She finished and we climbed the stairs into the gift shop inside Dinny's guts. Nobody was there."

Ted gestured again at the huge beast. "Alice was hot, red hot -- we'd been fondling each other while I drove. So she just pulled her panties down and lay across the counter on her belly, her butt straight out, and I screwed her right inside the dinosaur. She wailed like a banshee when she came."

He laughed. "And now this is a creationist museum. Those guys are really stupid. But that's okay with me, 'cause they don't look too critically at contract details. Damn, I love selling to fundy jeezoid cretinists! They'll believe anything."

Even when he is right, and funny, Ted can be annoying.

Alice strode from the restroom looking somewhat miffed but not quite pissed. Carol emerged a moment later, walking more slowly. I guessed their argument inside had not been too nasty. Why did I assume they had argued? Because they did, often. Two alpha bitches and no submission. Ouch.

We regained our vehicles. I took the lead again. Carol started to speak. I held up my hand. "I do not want to hear it. Just quit browbeating Alice." Carol opened her mouth. I waved again. "No. Just no." She sulkily returned to her Vaio.

The sun was high and mighty by the time we crested Whitewater Pass, the two-mile-deep cut in the coastal mountains, and dropped past sultry Palm Springs into the below-sea-level Colorado Desert region above the Salton Sea.

Waypoints: Desert Hot Springs; Palm Desert; Indio, for a fuel stop and to grab date shakes; then back above sea level and over Chiriaco Summit into Chuckwalla Valley; south onto the mine road turnoff before Desert Center; and here we were.

We pulled over beyond the gravel track's cattle guard. Everyone got out to stretch, and inhale some summer dust, and assess the situation. I waved Ted to the map spread over my Land Cruiser's hood. He swaggered over.

"Where's the trail, kemosabe?" Ted shaded his eyes theatrically and quite unnecessarily as he peered around; the sun was behind us.

"Out yonder, tonto," I gestured southeast and smirked. Ted either did not know or care that 'tonto' is Spanish for 'idiot'. I pointed at the map. "We'll take the Red Cloud Mine trail and head up into the Chuckwallas. The track past the mine is gnarly, but okay, and I know a good camping spot. Sure, we still have three or four hours of daylight left, but the earlier we get down tonight, the earlier we can get started in the morning."

"Get down! I like that. I brought the hashish. Yeah, we'll get down."

Alice reacted to her husband's announcement with a slight eye-roll. We sturdy engineers puffed a little for relaxation, sure we did. But our executive mates puffed a bit more, for exhilaration. I thought, Ted had better not be too stoner-hungover when we hit the rough tracks tomorrow.

We saddled-up and drove into the desert mountains.

I led the way past spindly thorny ocotillos, spiny jumping-cholla and regal prickly-pear cacti, spreading green creosote bushes, and sword-like yuccas, climbing up the steep track through deep narrow ravines to a wide flat area where Carol and I had camped before.

I parked in a familiar spot near a firepit; Ted wheeled in behind.

I chose this site by the realtor's rule: location, location, location. Open yet private; nobody could sneak up on us. Yes, that mattered, for privacy. But mainly, it was line-of-sight with a cell tower at Chiriaco Summit. We phoned home to let them know we had arrived okay.

"All RIGHT!!" Carol called as she jumped from the Land Cruiser. "We are back in NATURE here! So let's all get natural! I need to feel the air." She slipped her loose cargo shorts and thong down over her desert boots and whipped off her bikini top. "Damn, this feels great!" She looked great, too.

Off came my tee and cutoffs, leaving me in only rock boots and a thickening cock. Ted quickly followed suit, gawking at Carol. Alice grimaced slightly, but stripped off her own coverings. Her freckled pale Celtic skin could not take much direct sun, but this late afternoon light was gentle. I did my own share of gawking at our sexy gals.

We pitched pop-up tents, unfolded tables and chairs, and set up a minimal kitchen, slapping any available bare butts as they passed by. Camp was established!

Carol punched-up some hot salsa music on her boombox and started dancing. Her ample tan breasts bounced beautifully. I joined her jitterbugging.

Ted plopped an icebox filled with wine coolers and beer under the table. Alice passed drinks to all and shimmy-danced around Ted, her long, straight hair flowing like cherry cider. The sun dipped behind the tall westward mountains as we nudists cavorted and howled.

The dry wind in the cooling shadows forced us all into light long-sleeve shirts. Ted and Alice put together a hot dinner while Carol and I build a Prest-O-Log campfire. No, we would not burn the local vegetation.

Dinner; wine; cleanup; hashish; joking and singing; staring into the flames; crawling to our tents for loud sex and louder snoring. It was a good night.

The cool desert morning breeze precluded naked cavorting. We all emerged from out tents wearing tracksuits and bleary smiles. Alice lit the Coleman propane stove to boil water for Mexi-mocha: instant coffee plus cocoa plus tequila. Ted whopped-up hearty burritos for us. Breakfast of champions!

We warmed ourselves around the morning campfire and, after Ted and Carol had blathered about business awhile, we bullshitted about the coming day.

Carol's folding chair was next to mine. She reached over and ostentatiously squeezed my cock through my jogging pants. "Those were great rides last night and this morning, Bobby. Where are we riding today?" Another squeeze.

I laughed. "You do most of the riding, baby. I'm just your little pony. And today we'll gallop off into the sunset or something like that."

Alice had her hand on Ted's thigh. "Hi-yo, Silver," she whispered. "Don't be a lone stranger." Ted chuckled and squeezed his wife's breast. "Oh, I just love riding down into that dark canyon," he rasped. "Even with ambushes."

"Well kids, once you're safely out of the mineshaft of love, we'll try the other kind of rough-riding, si?" I waved a surveyor's compass in the air. "Where we're going is pretty much a cell- and GPS-free zone. Once we leave camp, the phones are dead. And any rock wall over forty five degrees, high will block satellites and GPS. So let's keep our VHF radios on -- we can make obscene calls back and forth as long as we're not too separated. Alice, you can talk dirty about that XJ-9E project that gets you wet."

Carol slapped my arm. "Try that, and you'll hear more than you ever want to know about macadamias. I think they press oil from them for sex lotions. Oh yeah baby, let me squeeze those nuts, hard, harder, HARDER, ooh ooh..."

"Oh no, Minnie, not that!" Ted piped in an annoying Mickey-Mouse falsetto.

Jibes, barbs, and giggles resounded as we broke camp. Our gear was collapsed and re-packed, strapped-down tight to survive bumpy rides. Trash was burnt; firepit embers were thoroughly pissed-on. The only traces we left were cold ashes and disturbed dust. We are responsible campers.

This was a fun day. We scooted down churned-up dry washes and along rough rocky tracks to old mines and adits. We had to chain the 4x4's together to cross a few steep, mucky places and washed-out gaps. We got dirty.

We did not bother with clothing during the heat of the day, just sturdy footwear, and towels straped onto the car seats to absorb sweat and juices. We stomped around catching full sun at every stop. Yay-hoo! And we somehow avoided falling into cactus patches.

We were all sweaty, grimy, and worn when we settled into a remote campsite that evening. The camp shower we rigged sure felt good. So did the Tequila Sunrise dessert, the hashish nightcap, and the hard, noisy after-dinner sex.

I'm getting ahead of myself here. Our new camp was in line-of-sight (barely) with a cell tower. We called home for a status check. Carol's folks had handled minor kiddy crises with their usual aplomb. Nobody missed us much. Carol and Ted plugged their mini-laptops into cell-USB adapters and called their office servers to pass emails and notes. Everything was copasetic.

Well, everything was copasetic except the weather forecast. We got warning of a storm moving up from the southeast. The monsoon was a month early!

Wet weather usually blows in from the Gulf of Mexico in early July. The Tucson tradition is: dry on the Fourth, wet on the Fifth. But not this year; I guess those climate-change guys were right, after all.

It was not forecast to reach us till late on Memorial Day (Monday) after we headed back, so no problem, right?

Problems could wait till tomorrow. Oh boy...

Coyotes howled in the distance. Strange lights flashed overhead, and distant roars and thumps. These were not surprising; we were camped just north of the Chocolate Mountains Gunnery Range, where the military practiced bombing and shelling the shit out of whatever. Strobes flashed. Coyotes sang again. Summer bugs flew and crawled. Navy and Marine aviators sped by.

I do not know about you, but I find such flash-bangs exciting. Carol does too. More flashing and roaring overhead, and howling and banging in the distance translated into more banging and howling on the ground. Mmmm...

Dawn brought an earlier start than yesterday. This camp was on the east slope of the Chuckwallas and caught the glare of the sun rising over the vast expanse of the Sonoran desert, flat for well over a hundred kilometers to the unseen Colorado River, the west coast of Arizona. The soft calls of desert thrushes, poorwills, and mourning doves washed around us.

We dressed lightly in shorts and tees for another Breakfast of Champions. We tore down the camp and drove uphill, over a saddle notch, and back to the west slope, into a tight network of deep rocky cuts overseen by eerie Joshua trees and bulky ironwoods, just below the pinyon-juniper zone.

Scooting down a steep sandy wash, I misjudged a turn. We slid and bounced, hard, on a tough granitic chunk of quartz monzonite. I touched the gas pedal; the engine responded, but the vehicle did not. Uh-oh.

Ted and Alice's Sequoia was in the lead then. I honked to get their attention. Ted backed up carefully. We all stood and surveyed the situation.

"Smooth move, smart-ass," Ted grunted. I had to agree.

"Let me take a look." I slid underneath. The oil pan looked okay as did everything else... except the U-joint. It had snapped. Fuck. I crawled out and delivered the bad news.

"You brought tools and spare parts, right?" Carol demanded imperiously.

"Tools, yes. Many spares, yes. Spare U-joint, no. I could maybe kludge it together if we had welding gear -- but we don't." I felt glum.

"How about brazing?" Alice asked. "You packed the brazing kit, right, Ted?"

"Yeah, it's in there," Ted said. "But will a torch-brazed U-joint hold?"

I thought about that. "No, not in really rough use. It'd likely survive a fairly smooth drive as long it's not too stressed -- no sudden starts or stops, just nice steady pressure. But you might have to tow us back to the I-10, or at least to the last downslope. Once we get that far, it's just a few miles on to Desert Center. I can get a U-joint replacement there."

"You'd better get that brazing kit out, Ted; we don't want to be stuck here all day," Carol ordered.

"Yes, your highness, at once, your majesty," Ted mumbled, and grumbled, rooting around in the back of the Sequoia. I did my own grumbling as I dug out the hydraulic jacks and tool box from their storage niches.

We jacked-up the disabled Land Cruiser. I crawled under; Alice passed me the tools I called for like a surgical nurse delivering forceps and scalpels. The work of removing the fractured part was easier than I expected because a strong cool wind rose from the southeast. The breeze was very refreshing, even moist.

Moist. Uh oh.

I crawled back out; Alice helped me stand. Ted and Carol stood a little distance away, talking quietly. I looked up at the sky's increasing overcast. Alice's eyes followed mine. I heard her gulp.

"Umm, is that what it looks like?" Alice asked. Yes, she had come to the same realization as I. "The monsoon is blowing in real early, isn't it?"

A drop of rain hit my forehead; another landed on her glasses. She absently wiped off the moisture. More rain dampened the girls' braless tees.

"I think I had better get to work." Cleaning and brazing the parts did not take long; the joined piece hissed as it cooled amid scattered raindrops. I laid a pulpy cactus scrap over the hot part to shelter it from the increasing rain.

"Uh, folks," I called to Ted and Carol, "conference time is over. We have got to get out of this wash RIGHT NOW!" They looked at me questioningly.

I nodded to the storm-cell clouds whipping against the peaks above us. "This is the time and place for flash floods. Ted, get your chains. Let's see," I said, looking around, then pointed at a hilly rise a hundred yards away, "we'll be safe up there. But we've got to MOVE!"

It was a little tricky. We chained the vehicles together and anchored a cable from the Sequoia's front winch to a fat old ironwood tree halfway up the slope. Four-wheel-drive plus the winch were sufficient to haul the Land Cruiser out of the wash and almost to the anchor tree.

And just in time!

We heard a roaring, almost like one of last night's overflying jets, but much closer and louder. The ground shook. Rockpiles rattled.

And then Hell broke loose below us: a frothing, raging flash flood. Waves of muddy water carried boulders, uprooted brush, tree stumps and barrel cactus bodies, and even an antelope. Ninety seconds earlier, and we would have been lost in that maelstrom, too.

I looked over at Carol in the passenger seat. Her natural tan had bleached to almost albino-pink paleness. "Oh fuck," she whispered, "that was damn close, wasn't it?" She shivered.

I reached over to her. "Too damn close. But we're safe now. From flooding, anyway. We'll get out of this, don't worry." I stroked her bare thigh reassuringly. I was not really worried myself.

The VHF radio crackled; I thumbed the key. "How's it going there, good buddy?" Ted's jocular voice sounded a bit strained.

"A-OK right now, and THANK YOU for the pull. But we'd better get on up to that level spot so I can go back underneath and reassemble this sucker. There's a big pinyon pine up there we can anchor to."

We were winched and powered to stability a few minutes later. The storm cell blew past the peaks. Wind and rain died to nothing. The overcast thinned; sunshine broke through patchily.

We stood together in the sudden calm.

"Well fuck, that was exciting," Alice said. "What now?"

"We're not going anywhere for at least an hour," I said. "That'll be long enough to be sure we won't be flooded again, and for the sand to drain and be firm enough to drive on."

"Carol and I had an idea before we got up here," Ted said. "Your brazed U-joint might hold together, or it might not. Now, this wash leads right down to the Red Cloud Mine trail, right? We thought we could drive to the parts shop in Desert Center and buy a new one. They're just a few bucks, right? And if we're going to do that, it had better be today. Tomorrow is the holiday and most places will be closed."