During my California years, I spent a good deal of time hanging out in the Mojave Desert whenever I had the chance. The California desert (as anyone who’s been there knows) is quite a mystical place, and the deeper you go into that awesome emptiness, the stranger and more quizzical it gets. Perfect place to get seriously offline, go hide out and pick some guitar.
“Desert people” are folks who live out there long enough that their minds settle in the shimmering heat and their souls open to the transformative winds that blow all the dust in their heads into psychic tea leaves for their morning cup. They know the folklore of their country as well as they do the backroad to Death Valley Junction. One of the more interesting stories I heard out there (from a group of university desert researchers with a penchant for the bizarre) was the tale of guitarist, singer and songwriter, Gram Parsons, a seminal artist in the LA country-rock scene of the 60s and early 70s.
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The memorial outside Room 8 at the Joshua Tree Inn,
with items left as tribute to Gram Parsons.
PHOTO BY ROBERT FULTON
