A Writing Retreat, a Rock Legend, and a Room Full of Spirits
By Lisa Nord Seplak
Damn, I got flagged by TSA. Body scanned, the pat down, then I put on my black boots and boarded the plane. I wondered if this was an omen. And not a good one. Before we landed our captain said, buckle up, the desert winds are howling like a hurricane. Circling Palm Springs the 737 dropped like an elevator headed to a basement before rising and doing the shimmy. I checked my seat pocket. No barf bag. For the record, I don’t ride roller coasters. At least not willingly. After the quiet flight from Chicago, suddenly folks in the cabin got real friendly. Nervous chatter. I’m not Catholic but did the sign of the cross. Why not, just in case, I mean you never know.
Now I’m lost. Disoriented in the desert and lost in the pages of a novel I’ve been working on for years. I need to find my way out.
Pulling my rented Telluride over to the side of Interstate 10, dust and sand swirling, I decide to give in and use voice navigation to guide me. I hesitated because I find this tech annoying, too AIish. Is that even a word? Anyway, I take pride knowing that I once traversed the country old school. Using paper maps. Learning from childhood road trips and jobs hawking cable networks throughout the center of the US. I’ve found my way from Chicago to the Black Hills to Golden Meadow, Louisiana and back. I can do this until I can’t.
Currently I’m headed to a writing retreat with Ariel Gore and the Wayward Writers in the desert town of Joshua Tree. In search of inspiration, camaraderie, and a certain creative vibe. Did I mention, also to escape the harsh Chicago winter. I feel certain I’ll find what I’m looking for. With these people. Under the desert sky.
I tell myself it’s good to travel to new places, reawaken my senses and spirit, look for more stories. I told my kid of my plans. He’s familiar. Having come to Joshua Tree to escape the LA fires in January of 2025.
“You stayin’ at an Airbnb?” he asks.
“Nope, the Joshua Tree Inn.”
“I can’t believe you’re staying there, seriously, you need to find an Airbnb.”
Did he know something I didn’t. He acted like I was checking into the Hotel California. Which honestly sounded amazing to me, being an Eagles music fan and all. Except for the part where you can never leave. That part’s creepy. I remind him of my traveling, before the days of cell phones and Google Maps. I’ll be ok.
On the Inn’s website I read a bit about its history and the legend of Gram Parsons. I didn’t pay much attention because I chose the Inn for its location. Near the Airbnb where we Waywards were gathering. And the rustic charm. Beautiful and serene. Built in the 1940’s in a Spanish Colonial style around a large courtyard and pool, each guest space an original. I chose room five featuring a turquoise wall and amazing Western artwork. I read about room eight, about Gram Parsons overdosing and dying in that room. I wasn’t super familiar with Gram Parsons and certainly had no desire to book room eight. What I didn’t know yet, was what a huge thing it is. Devotees staying in that room, soaking up Gram’s spirit. I was in for a surprise.
Here’s the story of Gram Parsons and the Joshua Tree Inn. Parsons was a musician who combined rock with country music. Then he mixed in a little soul and folk creating his unique sound he called “Cosmic American Music.” Influenced by Elvis, George Jones, Merle Haggard, and Otis Redding he is credited with being one of the first to combine these genres. Initially he formed The International Submarine Band. After they broke up, he performed with The Byrds for a year. Then he moved to Los Angeles and formed The Flying Burrito Brothers. They played at the Altamont Music Festival and were included in the documentary, Gimme Shelter. He was friends with Keith Richards. It seems Gram was in this nexus of musical creation and genius. Maybe he was even at the center. But Parsons had a drug problem, his use increased and he left the Burrito Brothers. He then embarked on a solo career with Emmylou Harris.
Parsons liked to vacation in Joshua Tree, where he found tranquility and peace. Sometime before his death, he and his good friend and road manager, Phil Kaufman made a pact. Whoever died first would cremate the other’s body in Joshua Tree National Park to set their spirit free. When Gram was staying at the Joshua Tree Inn for the very last time, legend has it he drank a bunch of tequila, met a girl, acquired morphine, and shot it up. When the folks with him realized he’d OD’d, they tried to wake him by old tricks from the ‘70’s I presume. An ice cube up the ass and a cold shower. That didn’t work so they called an ambulance. He was brought to the hospital in Yucca Valley where he was pronounced dead.
When Kaufman heard the news, he sprang into action. He wanted to respect his good friend’s last wishes and honor the pact they made. I wonder if Gram had a premonition that led him to make this arrangement originally. But Kaufman encountered a problem. Parson’s family wanted him buried in New Orleans and planned to have the body flown there. Somehow, Kaufman and a friend tracked down Gram’s coffin and body at LAX, bribed a security guard and hauled the casket with Gram inside to Cap Rock in Joshua Tree National Park. There, under the night sky, they doused it with gasoline and lit it on fire. Nearby campers, unaware of what was transpiring, alerted park rangers of a fire. Gram’s partially burned remains were recovered and sent to New Orleans and buried. Kaufman and his accomplice received a 30-day suspended sentence and were fined $300 each.
A 2003 film was made about the escapade. Grand Theft Parsonsstarring Johnny Knoxville and Christina Applegate.
It’s quite a story and one I didn’t know about before arriving in the desert. Employees of the Inn told me Ghost Adventures filmed an episode here and discovered paranormal activity in rooms eight and 12. Employees had seen it too. Shadows, furniture moving. Honestly, I’m glad I didn’t know this before my stay. I’m sure I would have been spooked. But interestingly, when I arrived and settled in my room that first night, I realized I might be the only person on the property. It was startlingly quiet. And the office is only open from 3pm to 8pm, it was midweek and this ain’t the city, girl. Yet, I felt a peacefulness I hadn’t sensed in a long time. No fear. Just a stillness that held me close.
The doves’ coo wakes me in the morning, and I prepare for a day writing and communing with my group. Inspiring. Hopeful.
When you enter the front office of the Joshua Tree Inn you walk into a veritable museum of Gram Parsons memorabilia. Guitars, photographs, posters, and desert artwork fill the space. All donated, keeping Gram’s memory alive, telling his story, creating new fans. A sign in the front window proclaims, “The Home of Gram Parsons Spirit.” After my stay, I completely agree. In front of room eight, sits a shrine in the shape of a large, golden guitar. At its base is the concrete slab from Cap Rock where he was partially cremated along with flowers and trinkets placed by admirers. “Safe at Home” painted on the concrete, presumably taken from the name of the album by The International Submarine Band of which the then 21-year-old Gram Parsons was a member.
Outside of room eight is the original door from Gram Parsons time. It’s golden and magical, flowing ivy and a red velvet chair placed next to it. I wonder if it’s a portal to another time. I’m told by employees, if you wish to book this room, which a lot of fans do, make reservations at least a month in advance.
I’m listening to “Return of the Grievous Angel” by Gram Parsons and Emmylou Harris, their harmony beautiful. “Twenty thousand roads I went down, down. . . ” I’m no longer lost, my inspiration found. I’ll be back.
Lisa Nord Seplak is a writer and mom who lives in Chicagoland with her spouse and Siberian husky. She is the author of the chapbook Charlotte Marie and Other Savage Girls and a former contributing columnist for The Hinsdalean.
