A storm was brewing and we were out in the middle of nowhere, heading north beyond the Pacific Missile Range Facility at Barking Sands. Gerald had driven past neglected sugar cane fields and dark murky ditches filled with unrecognizable buzzing insects. Just beyond the turnoff to Polihale State Park, he slid the Mustang into second gear and turned the wheel toward the rocky cliffs above. We had no choice if we were going to escape the ominous bank of dark clouds fast approaching. I followed his squinted gaze to an abandoned tunnel carved into the rocky ledge overlooking the sea. “Are we going up there?”, I stammered. “We may have no choice”, he replied in a calm steady voice. Around each turn the landscape announced it had been awhile since anyone had been on this route. Tall marsh-like grasses choked the uneven road to a single lane. Casting my eyes outside the passenger window, blurred images slowly became collections of worn out cars long forgotten since the 1960s. A faded yellow Volkswagen Beetle lay helplessly on its side, tires flattened, windows a kalideoscope of shattered glass. When we slid by a row of hillside bunkers hidden on a grassy knoll, we began to suspect we were in a restricted military area. A quick glimpse told us the accordion tube snaking around back had a cooling function behind it. For what purpose we wondered, but drove on. Finally we reached the cavernous opening. Brush and broken limbs obscured its entrance. Looking closely, it became apparent the darkened portal had been crumbling into a decayed state that warranted splintered wood remnants and tree limbs haphazardly camouflaging the endless abyss. This was not an option for refuge.

Suddenly the sky became a cloudburst of smattered rain. Torrential horizontal raindrops pelted the windshield. Thoroughly drenched to the bone, we sped away on that flat stretch of Highway 50. Although objects appear larger than they are, all that remained was the distant reflection of turbulent storm clouds in the rear view mirror.