Fifteen degrees cooler. We closed the windows and wind whistled through the seal.

Ten miles later, Milo exited at Soledad Canyon and hooked a left away from the boomtown development of Santa Clarita and toward peace and quiet. The road climbed and curved and curled and hooked. Isolated stands of spruce and the occasional windbreak eucalyptus hugged the west side of the highway, but the big players were California oaks glorying in their dry-earth beds, gray-green crowns shimmering in the wind. Copses of the majestic trees ran clear to the next ridge of mountain. They’re tough, ancient creatures that delight in self-denial; when you spoil them with too much water they die.

As the foliage thinned, the road demanded more respect, hairpin curves wrapping around acute edges of sere mountains, spillover from rock slides pasting Milo’s eyes to the road. The wind’s whistle grew to an insistent howl. The big birds swooped lower, flew more assertively. Nothing to hamper them but the occasional power pole.

No sign of any other cars for miles, then a woman chattering happily on a cell phone came barreling around a blind curve in a minivan and nearly sideswiped us.

“Brilliant,” said Milo. When his breathing had settled: “Soledad. Means loneliness, right? You’d have to like your alone time to move out here.”

A thousand feet higher a few ranches appeared, small, scrubby, desultory plots set into gullies notched off the highway and bounded by metal flex fencing. A cow, here, a horse, there. A weathered sign to nowhere advertised weekend pony rides. No stock to back it up.

“Read me the address, Alex.”

I did. He said, “We’re getting close.”

Ten miles later we came upon several private “picnic grounds” set off the west side of Soledad Canyon Road.

Cozy Bye. Smith’s Oasis Stop. Lulu’s Welcome Ranch.

The numbers that matched Barnett Malley’s address were burned into a blue roadside sign that announced Mountain View Sojourn: Recreation and Picknicks.

I said, “Maybe he’s not that antisocial, after all.”

Milo pulled off onto the hardpack driveway. We bumped along an oak-lined dirt path until we came to a shaky wooden bridge that crossed a narrow arroyo. The blue Welcome! sign on the other side was bottomed by a whitewashed plank that listed a magna carta of regulations: No smoking, no drinking, no motorcycles, no off-road vehicles, no loud music. Pets by individual approval only, children must be supervised, the pool is for use of registered guests only . . .

Milo said, “Take that, Thoreau,” and kept driving.

* * *

The entry drive ended a hundred yards later at an open paved square. To the left were more oaks— an old, thick grove— and directly in front of us were three small, white-frame buildings. To the right sat another paved area, larger and sectioned by white lines. Half a dozen trout-decaled Winnebagos were hooked up to utility lines. The backdrop was sheer golden mountainside.