As soon as I can dig up enough information to write something about a 2010 model we can’t tell you about yet, I’m heading off into the Mojave Desert to a set of GPS coordinates you’ll probably never use. You shouldn’t, really. These are very nice people. Consummate professionals even. But they have a lot of work to do and don’t really appreciate unexpected guests poking around the property.
Not that you could see anything from the sandy little ranch road that runs in front of the place anyway. More people fly over it in airliners than drive by hopelessly lost in a dusty rental car, or the indigenous `63 Chevy pickup with serious body rust and an Australian Shepherd riding shotgun. That’s the beauty of such places, at least for those of us with eyes to see it. A few rugged individualists, solitarians and social misanthropes have built fences around the long driveways that lead to their various forms of shelter. Otherwise, there’s a whole lot of nothing. Those lucky enough not to be subjected to such things can take my word or this much. After a week of rattling around Los Angeles County with 9,862,049 other carbon-based life forms, all this nothing looks better than just about anything else I can think of at the moment. Except maybe the In-N-Out double-double with fries and a vanilla shake waiting for me 54 miles south of here.