Sunday, January 19, 2020

A rolling stone gathers no air

A pointy bit of rock managed to find its way into my front passenger-side tire. Hurray for driving in the desert. I discovered it while there was still air in the tire, before I could destroy the sidewall by driving on it.

Okay, despite it being a pain in the ass, I decided to change the tire. I’ve done it before. But if you’ve been following me a few years, and if you have a decent memory for things that don’t directly concern you, or you’ve had to change a tire on a GM pickup or van, you might recall there’s a common problem getting the spare tire from under the truck.

Then there’s the issue of trying to work on rocky ground. And the issue of me being kind of weak after cancer. I fussed with it a while, discovered my WD-40 didn’t want to spray (despite being partially full) and I started feeling exhausted. I thought it might be wiser to stop before I hurt myself.

Plan B was to try some Fix-A-Flat. There was a truck stop a couple of miles away. I got out my electric pump and reinflated the tire to the proper 50 PSI. I checked it again about a mile later. It was down to 25 PSI. I pumped it up some more.

I got some Fix-A-Flat, followed the directions and pumped it up again. By the time I got back to camp, Fix-A-Flat was bubbling out around the puncture. Rats. I checked on it after a while and the pressure was back down to 25 PSI. The Fix-A-Flat wasn’t bubbling out anymore when I added air, but I could feel a bit of air coming out. The goo didn’t do the job.

And, of course, this happened on a Sunday, when the local tire shops are closed. So I’ll keep reinflating the tire until Monday morning, even if that means getting up to run the pump in the middle of the night. Then I’ll limp to a tire shop to get the spare freed up and installed. Since selection of tires is low and the prices high here in Quartzsite and neighboring towns, I’ll make a run to Yuma for a new tire. Or two, considering the other front tire has also been patched.

Saturday, January 18, 2020

Disappearing act

I dropped off a load of things at the Rubber Tramp Rendezvous free pile, which is now a curated group of tables rather than stuff dropped randomly on a tarp.

I returned to the Rolling Steel Tent for the shoes that didn’t make it in the first load. By the time I got back to the free pile, both stoves had been taken.

There was only one of eleven DeLorme atlases left (Wyoming). (I still have all my Benchmark atlases of the western states. I prefer those maps.)

The heavy gauge wire was gone.

And one of two belts had found  a home.

The kingsize duvet cover was still there, along with the twin XL fitted sheet. If no one wants them for their original purpose, the fabric can be turned into other things, like curtains.

Flammable/explosive/toxic fluids aren’t allowed at the free pile, so I put a notice on the bulletin board for my mostly-full propane tank. I got a text within a half hour and met with the tank’s new owner.

The van is about fifty pounds lighter now, and less crowded. And it feels good to help others.

Friday, January 17, 2020

Just out on a walk

1 + 1 = 1, or Now you’re cookin’ with gases

I started my van life with a Coleman one-burner propane stove. I could use either a 16-once bottle or a large five-gallon tank. The tank was more convenient because it lasted much longer and propane is less expensive in bulk. The stove sufficed, but it seemed to have only two temperatures: off and burned. Meh, I adapted to it.

A few years later, I was given a very slightly used Coleman one-burner butane stove. I liked it a lot. It was self-igniting and had much better temperature control. And it had a handy case. However, butane canisters are half the volume, more expensive, and sometimes difficult to find. Also, cool temperatures lower the pressure in the cans, reducing the flow rate, and making it so the burner barely burns. This is twice the problem if, like me, you want to use the stove as a heater. Furthermore, butane doesn’t like the thinner air of high elevations.

Golly, if only there were something out there combining the positive features of propane and butane stoves.

There is. Dual fuel stoves, like those from Gas One. They self-ignite and have good temperature control like butane stoves, and they can use cheaper, more plentiful propane that still burns well when it’s cold or above 7,000 feet.

I’ve waited until now to get a dual fuel stove because I can give away my other stoves at the Rubber Tramp Rendezvous. Someone will be grateful for one, despite the various drawbacks.

Time bandit

This is part of the leap year adjustment, right? Or is part of my phone in a different micro time zone?

Monday, January 13, 2020

The pre-event event

The Women’s Rubber Tramp Rendezvous starts the 14th and the regular Rubber Tramp Rendezvous begins the 18th. But today there was a gathering to help attendees figure out the new format, to arrange carpools between various camping areas and the venue, to pick up some swag, and to see which of your friends might be there.

The gathering was scheduled to start at 11:00 AM, with no need for any attendees to be there at the very start. I imagined I’d get there around 11:30 by the time I got gas and stopped by my mail forwarder. I drove under the speed limit yet still arrived just before 11:00. And there were over a hundred others there already. Either they also overestimated their travel time, or they were very eager to familiarize themselves with the venue, pick up their stickers, badges or t-shirts, and to meet Bob Wells—the creator of the Rubber Tramp Rendezvous.

I had donated to the Homes On Wheels Alliance, so I was entitled to a sticker. It now resides on my van wall with all my other stickers. And I got a name badge, because this time, dammit, I’m going to meet new people.

There was a crowd around Bob, like fans swarming a celebrity. There were a lot of hugs and selfies. I’ve been friends with Bob since the autumn of 2013, so I stayed to the side until the admirers thinned out. Bob is over on the invert side of the scale, yet he’s devoted to building social and practical connections among nomads, a good portion of whom are also introverted. It’s a paradox. And it’s draining on him. Only an hour or so into a two-week event and he was already looking overwhelmed, despite having a staff and a pack of volunteers. I wished him the best of luck with the new format and suggested he set himself up with a comfy stool when greeting the masses.

My pledge to meet new people lost, without a struggle, to my desire to head back to camp. But there will be other chances. After all, this wasn’t the main event.

Saturday, January 11, 2020

Machine bites the hand that feeds it

The washing machine coin slot was balky. I pushed, pulled, pushed, pulled, rattled it a little pushed and then gave it a good shove with the heel of my hand. The slide finally, suddenly, moved as it should, then jabbed a hole in my hand.

Ow! Hey, I was just trying to give you money!

Well, that’s different

Instead of the usual cans, bottles, nails, cigarette butts and other litter I usually find in fire rings, this one featured a small rug left to the side.

I imagine the previous owner just didn’t want it any longer and offered it up to a future camper who would have need of it. I don’t know how many others have passed on it or how many others in the future will leave it be. I just know it’s nothing I needed.

Thursday, January 9, 2020

Those kinds of people, again

Even if it was an experiment trying to determine the melting points of aluminum and steel, and not just the litter of thoughtless jerks, they could’ve cleaned up the aftermath. I guess they were counting on someone cleaning up for them. That someone is me this time.

Wednesday, January 8, 2020

When is a snake not a snake?

I respect snakes but I don’t fear them. So it was surprising I dreamed last night I was attacked by huge rattlers.

I won’t get into the details of the dream. I think the important part was two people I was with were afraid to help, or just didn’t want to, but two strangers rushed in, yanked the anaconda-sized diamondbacks off me and dispatched them.

When I wake from dreams like this one, I try to figure how it might be related to my reality. What’s going on in my life, in my conscious mind? Do I feel like I’m in danger? Do I feel like the people I’d expect to help me won’t or can’t? Do I hope unknown people will come to my rescue? Mmmmmm… No. Not that I can see. Things are rather good right now.

So if the dream was just about the danger of snakes, I’ll be even more careful about where I walk.

Monday, January 6, 2020

This land is my land

The first time I went to Slab City was 2014 when I’d been a nomad for about six months. It’s sort of a mecca and cultural touchstone for us rootless folks on very low budgets. You have to visit at least once or they take away your nomad license. I stayed several weeks, hanging with artists, musicians, writers, runaways, survivalists, hipsters, druggies, Canadian snowbirds, and plain old poor people. Most Slabbers were nice, some of them were scary.

I made a few one-night stops in the ensuing years because it was conveniently on the way to somewhere else. A waypoint rather than a destination. Because I’d done the Slabs thing. And because both the place and I were changing.

The population of Slab City has probably doubled in six years—partly because it has become increasingly well known, but mostly because of the same forces that are driving homelessness all over the country.

It seems as if a greater proportion of the new Slabbers are determined homesteaders, building more substantial abodes. There are far fewer sleeping-bag-under-a-bush types, far fewer snowbirds in large RVs—because there’s less room for them.

The homesteaders not only take up ground for their structures, most of them also lay claim to their compound with fences, walls, containers or anything else that says, “This is mine.” There are private property signs, even though no one owns the ground they’re living on. The state does.



So, while the Slab City population is becoming more stable and less transient, it’s also becoming more exclusionary. The signs might welcome you to “the last free place,” but these days the greeting seems less authentic, more self-congratulatory. “Woo-hoo! We got free land! Now buzz off.”

Saturday, January 4, 2020

G-o-o-o-o-o-d morning

It was one of those nights when my mind and body were like little siblings who wouldn’t quit harassing each other. Over stupid stuff. Petty stuff.

“Don’t touch me!”

“Don’t touch me!

“You started it!”

“No, you touched me first!”

“If you cross this line I’ll call Mom!”

“Mom! Mom! She hit me!”

“Did not!”

“Did so!”

“Well you called me a bad name!”

“Did not!”

“Did so!”

Yeah, like that. All. Night. Long. Even though I took away their phones and sent them to their rooms.

So I was glad when morning came and I could welcome a fresh new day.

Tuesday, December 31, 2019

This is a desert?

I diverged from the usual and expected routes and routines and explored a part of Yuma I had never seen: their riverside parks.


Gateway Park is next to the old Yuma Territorial Prison and under the I-8 overpass. (I’ve driven over the park many times, but never found my way down to it.) There’s a beach, pavilions, and the beginning of a bike/pedestrian path that follows the Colorado River. It looks as if some fellow vehicle dwellers like to hang out there. Train watchers, too.


Farther downstream, with the entrance at the north end of 12th Avenue, is West Wetlands Park. Boat ramp, beach, pond, elaborate playground, pavilions and the continuation of the trail that started at Gateway Park. It doesn’t feel at all like the desert. The morning of New Year’s Eve there were only a half dozen dog walkers and some maintenance people. I imagine it’s a popular place in warmer weather. I’ll certainly spend more time there during my Yuma visits.

Sunday, December 29, 2019