Day Three: New Cuyama - Tehachapi

We were startled awake by a puppy—how’s that for a morning wake up? Perfect, if you ask me. Zucca is a young Vizsla (does any of this sound like English?), and she is the newest mascot of the Santa Barbara Pistachio Farm. Her fiery red hair was a clear descriptor of her name, which means “pumpkin” in Italian. After playing and packing up our camping gear, we stopped into the shop for one last purchase: Lemon Zing pistachios. Meanwhile, Tristan, the field manager of the pistachio farm, shoved three bags of flavored pistachios into his back pockets and insisted that we tag along with him toward Bakersfield. The road ahead was desolate for miles, and there was no way we would make it to a place with trees by sundown, so we agreed.

The drive was exactly what he described: barren. That is, until we reached stretches of privately owned farms, producing everything from carrots to dairy products to Halo brand oranges (which, Tristan says, is a scam of a business). He told us the ways of his world, with stories about canyoneering in Zion and meeting the love of his life. He even shared tricks and tips for eating pistachios—the main one being, “DON’T PUT THE SHELL IN YOUR MOUTH! I chipped a tooth that way.” Tristan dropped us off in the small town of Arvin and bid us adieu with a description of the treacherous hills ahead. If we could stick it out for 35 miles, we’d have a restaurant at the end of the road.

We could, and we did. But before the fact, Slater had to address the mop on his head. Nah, I’m just kidding—I love that hair. But it is thick, and it had to go. So we pushed our “vehicles” into Gene’s Barber Shop and chatted incessantly with the veteran owner. Gene is an older fella who has been cutting hair since the age of 19, when he discovered that he had a heart murmur. His dad recommended that he become a barber so that he could pursue a low-stress career, and he has followed those words for over 60 years. He told us that friends have come and gone, most of them moving to larger cities like Bakersfield; but Gene says he loves his life in the small town, and he wouldn’t trade it for the world.

We were sent off with one more warning of the mountains ahead and a quick stop at McDonald’s for WiFi (okay, okay, and a McChicken). About ten miles down the road, we came upon a semi truck on the side of the highway. Alongside it stood Mike, a truck driver, yelling, “Do you want ice water?!” Hint: always say yes to ice water. We were winded, sweating, and not quite in the mood for a long chat, but Mike wasn’t willing to take that. He poked and prodded us with questions and stories of his own, and eventually we caved in for a 20-minute conversation. He made us laugh with his stories of wild days on Lake Havasu, and brought us back down with his details of a life full of addiction. But thanks to a new job and new surroundings, he says, he is now clean. We left Mike with a hearty “thank you” and his last reminder: “Not every driver has the best of intentions. There are a lot of ‘em who have a different agenda. Be careful.”

On that note, we raced to the finish for the day: the town of Tehachapi. After 25 more miles of climbing through the mountains, but far less breaks than the days before, we hit our exit and desperately cruised over to a restaurant called Papa’s BBQ. Our final friend of the day was a marvelous man named Jim, who is 81 years strong. He is a whole-plant food fanatic with a Yale degree and a kind heart. He was extremely supportive of our trip, and even tossed us a few bucks to pay for our dinners—which, by the way, were giant burgers. We grabbed his number to update him along the way and thanked him for the delicious grub from the restaurant that he financed (even though he believes the portions are far too large).

After wrapping up, we decided that it was time for a shower at a hotel-motel-Holiday Inn. Just kidding, it was a Best Western—we just like that song. Our sore muscles and aching backs told us our first rest day was quickly approaching, so we took advantage of a king-sized bed and hot tub that we won’t see again for quite some time. As it turns out, Tehachapi is a popular stop for PCT (Pacific Crest Trail) hikers, so we weren’t as much of an eye sore as we expected. The night was full of snores for a long trek ahead.

P.S. In case you were wondering, we find some pretty cool—and disturbing—stuff on the side of the road. Day 3’s debris included water bottles full of urine, an old copy of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer, metal truck parts, underwear, and even a dead pitbull. Sometimes the shoulder isn’t the best place to be.