Baker, Calif., famous mostly for a very tall thermometer, proclaims itself “The Gateway to Death Valley.” Taft, a more sizable town on the edge of the San Joaquin Valley, proclaims itself “Gateway to the Carrizo Plain.” Before it was renamed for 27th president of the United States, Taft was known to the world as “Moron”--admittedly, the burg acquired the unfortunate moniker a good decade before the word was coined by Henry H. Goddard to denote an adult with a mental age of between eight and 12.
Taft is a proud town, built on the back of the Southern San Joaquin's not-inconsiderable petroleum industry. Baker seems to have been built solely on the back of the Mad Greek, whose milkshakes are not as good as he proclaims them to be.
Regardless, I have infinite fondness for nowhere places that proclaim themselves to be gateways to anywhere. It follows, then, that during my numerous head-clearing trips from Ojai into the Central Valley over Highway 33, the Carrizo Plain would stick in my mind as a place I'd someday have to visit.
Last Friday, after my brunch-time run-in with Adam Levine's Porsche 356 Speedster, I bid Los Angeles adieu and broke north on 101, with just a vague notion of a few possible routes back to Sacramento. The drive home wasn't intended to be any sort of mystic adventure in highway-based numerology or hit-and-run cosmology, though I've certainly used it as such in the past. It was supposed to be just a quick shot past Westlake Village, Oxnard and Ventura and then onto 33, one of California's great driving roads, for a chance to wring out the Infiniti G37 IPL that I had at my disposal.
The G's IPL variant, you might recall, is Infiniti's entry in the M/AMG/S/V/F alphanumeric-performance sweepstakes. More M-Sport than M, more S line than S, the IPL sees a modest 18-hp boost, a slightly awkward body kit and a bit of fiddling with the suspension.
The last iteration of Infiniti's BMW 3-series fighter that I drove was a G37S convertible, and while it looked and sounded impressive, the steering and the suspension combined in such a way that I never felt particularly confident behind the wheel.
If the IPL's not exactly a scalpel, neither is it a bludgeon or a wallowy, tentative cur. Whatever juju Infiniti's engineers applied to the chassis made it a reasonably joyful conveyance over 33, especially with the seven-speed autobox manually held in third, keeping the roaring VQ in its powerband.
After a refreshing blat over Pine Mountain Summit, I descended into the Cuyama Valley, just south of the San Luis Obispo County line. As I reached Ventucopa, where 33 joins up with 166 for a stretch, I decided to stick with 33 as far as Blackwells Corner--the last place James Dean was seen alive--then catch 46 over to I-5 for a fast interstate slog home.
The plan didn't even last for 10 miles. About five minutes east of Ventucopa, I saw the sign for Soda Lake Road and the Carrizo Plain National Monument. I didn't hesitate. I hung a left.
The first five miles were fine, if not silken. The pavement was bumpy and patched; the Infiniti's suspension soaked it up reasonably well, given its relatively taut tune. Then I crossed a cattle guard. Suddenly, there was no more pavement. I then recalled that once I'd read that the only road through the plain was at points unpaved. I pressed on, mildly cursing my impetuousness and noted that if I really did reach an impassable point anywhere along the route, I had more than enough gasoline to turn around and make it to Taft.
I pressed on for about 30 miles at 25 mph to 30 mph, stereo off, imagining resonator guitars, thick backbeats and perhaps a bit of a 60-cycle hum as the sun sank behind the Caliente Mountains to the southwest. I was mindful of the San Andreas Fault hugging the edge of the Temblor Mountains to the northeast, basking in the day's last rays. With the exception of a few snaking dirt roads, some fencing and the occasional cattle guard, the Carrizo Plain stands as much of California did before its flatlands were drafted for large-scale agricultural duty. It's the Golden State before John Marshall went futzing about in Sutter's mill race, before Mariano Vallejo invited the Bear Flag rebels in for drinks.
In 2001, William Jefferson Clinton signed a presidential proclamation, making the plain a national monument. In 2005, under the stress of balancing conservation of the plain's grasslands, Washington policy and the demands of area ranchers, monument manager Marlene Braun killed herself.
One gets the sense that Infiniti was also caught between two poles when building the IPL. With Lexus having gone legit high-performance with the IS F, Infiniti needed a burlier variant of the G to keep up appearances. And appearances are mostly what the IPL consists of. Resource management's a tricky business, but shouldn't the lusty 5.0-liter V8 from the FX50S slot between the G's frame rails?
After about 20 miles of dirt, the pavement returned. I made quick work of the last miles to Highway 58 and I hurled the coupe up over the Temblors, the clouds hanging black in the dusk--like aerosol crude over the Calientes--as I headed for McKittrick in the heart of San Joaquin's oil country.
Taken on its own, the IPL is a pleasant-enough car. Taken in the grand scheme of near-luxury performance machines, it's a bit of an anomaly. It should be the car below the halo car of the line, but in Infiniti's case, it is the halo car. The Carrizo Plain is an anomaly as well. It's the largest remaining native grassland in a state that once had enough native grassland to cover all of Tennessee. Given their respective demeanors, I'm surprised at how well they managed to get along for an afternoon. But the next time I get the urge to drive the plain in an Infiniti, I'm bringing a QX56.
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