Dollar store salmon?

I’m pretty certain none of the advice about buying good fish recommends Dollar Tree, but what the hell, it was only a buck. 

I had the choice of cod, tilapia or salmon. Hmmmm. Cod triggers nightmares of my days working at a fish & chip joint. Tilapia is crap. So I went with the more upscale salmon. Because, as I said, it was only a buck.

The white stuff was some kind of clear liquid that was with the fish

I let it thaw in the fridge overnight then sautéd it in some Danish butter and ghee with some salt and pepper. And…

Nothing horrible, nothing great, and nothing very salmony. Just generic mild fish flavor. About what you’d expect for fish that isn’t fresh from the ocean. 

But this was much better than the canned salmon I tried a few months ago for old times’ sake. Mom used to make salmon loaf with the stuff. I hated it as a kid but had a nostalgic craving for it. Blekh. Even the coyotes wouldn’t eat the remains I left for them.

Would I eat dollar store fish again? Mmmmm, I wouldn’t rule it out. There’s nothing wrong with it. There’s just nothing compelling about it. Except the price.

Am I now obliged to go somewhere cold?

This jacket was deeply discounted because the apparel industry has proclaimed the middle of winter to be spring. Since it was cheap and in a color other than the Official ‘Merican Male Colors of black, charcoal, navy, dark green, dark red and camouflage, I grabbed it.

I don’t know if it’s any warmer than my fleece tops, but it should be slightly more impervious to wind. And it’s roomy enough for extra layering. I hope I never need to do that.

Becoming my father

Dad would turn down the radio whenever he started the car. It didn’t matter what the station was. It didn’t matter how loud it was—or wasn’t. He would turn it down. Of course, he’d eventually reach the point where, click, he turned it all the way off. He would claim one of us kids had turned it up, even though it might’ve been days, weeks, since we last rode with him. He still did it after the nest was empty and we weren’t around to blame. He did it even after Mom had passed on and almost no one ever rode with him. The habit was that deeply ingrained. It was part of the routine, like insert the key, depress the clutch, put it in neutral, apply the brakes, turn the key, turn down the radio, put it in gear, release the clutch, go. One time I caught him trying to turn down the radio when it was already off.

Well, lately, I’ve startled myself several times when starting the Rolling Steel Tent. BAMMA-WADDA-WAH-WAH-GA-BAMMA-WAMMA-WEEE-EEE-EEEEEE!!! Whoa, the radio is loud! I thought I had turned it down when I pulled into the dispersed camping area, so as not to annoy my fellow boondockers. As much. Yup, the volume was at 14 instead of the usual 23. And yet, it felt like it was on 50 (even though the volume doesn’t go that high).

Is this going to be a thing now? Am I going to be one of those “Turn down that racket” guys? What a depressing thought. Next thing you know I'll be turning off the radio so I can read the GPS. Oh wait, I already do that.

The H word

A storm system rolled into the desert this past week. We really needed the rain, but since every silver lining has a cloud, I have reason to be less than thrilled. Humidity. 

I love arid air. It’s the glorious antithesis to my less-than-happy life in the South. Dry is good. Dry is clean. Humidity is clammy, clingy, laden with spores and malaise. Humidity is intrusive. It doesn’t want you to forget it’s there.

So here I am, with the humidity fluctuating between 40 and 60 percent—a range most of the country considers normal—getting all cranky, wanting this oppressive wetness to end. Now! But, no. There’s more rain tomorrow. Sigh. I think I’m sprouting gills.

Taking advantage of a break in the weather

To the limit

Speed limits can serve several purposes. One is safety, right? Speed kills. Slow down, save lives. School zone. So on. Sometimes it’s simply to generate revenue. Speed traps. A third is to pander to those with delusions of living in quieter, slower, more genteel times. And, so, we have speed limit signs. And speed limit enforcement signs.

If you think about it (like I do while wandering the country), the threatening signs are essentially low-cost substitutes for a cruiser at the side of the road scaring drivers into slowing down. But the signs mean it’s highly unlikely there are actually any cops watching—on the ground or in the air. The signs are there because people haven’t been slowing down—because there’s no officer to stop them. If there were, a simple speed limit sign would suffice.

What you really need to watch for are speed cameras. Ah, technology. Recording every speeder, every day, sending it off to the central computer, issuing tickets, mailing them out, all with dispassionate robotic efficiency. Ironically, the companies operating the camera systems want people to keep speeding. In fact, their contracts usually contain clauses prohibiting their customers from raising speed limits or reworking traffic flow in ways that might naturally slow drivers. Because the companies get a cut of the fines. More speeders = more profit. Ah, public-private partnerships. Ah, capitalism.

But it’s all about safety. No, really. I swear.

To the west and to the east

More Death Valley fun

Because too much brown is boring

Unlike many places that have neatly arranged geologic layers, Death Valley has lumps and clumps and piles. It’s as if Nature used the place to dump Earth’s leftover building materials.

Back to the valley of death

It had been a few years since I was last in Death Valley. I had been antsy to travel, and the forecast looked like the overnight temperatures would be bearable, so off I went.

The Zabriskie Point Trail isn’t very long. Besides, I was starting to lose light by the time I got there, so I couldn’t stay out long. It was a nice way to get reacquainted with the place. The almost total lack of vegetation made this hike feel like I was on another planet.

Sunrise over the Colorado River

As seen from my room at the Edgewater Hotel & Casino, Laughlin, Nevada. I'm on my way to Death Valley and didn’t want to camp in freezing weather if I didn't need to. The hotel was built back before guests had a bunch of electronics they needed to plug in, so the room is short on outlets. And since they want you to be gambling instead of sitting in your room, there’s no desk, just a small table with no outlets nearby. So I moved the table across the room. Good thing it’s small. Oh, and their standard free wifi is slow. They charge for a faster connection. Nice sunrise view, though.

The college of electrical knowledge

Many times electrical savvy nomads have asked me how many Amps my solar setup puts out. I could only answer that I didn’t know. One reason is that the whole concept of Amps refuses to stick in my brain for some reason. I’m good with Watts and Volts, but Amps…? The second reason is that I didn’t have anything measuring Amps for me. Can’t give anyone a number I don’t have.

But that has changed. (Well, at least the second reason has. I’m still an idiot about Amps.) I spent part of my second stimulus check on the meter that replaces the face plate of my MorningStar charge controller. Remove the old plate, plug the meter into the waiting receptacle, screw the new meter/faceplate in place, and… presto! Not only the Amps, but even more data i don’t understand. Yet. 

Before

After

Out of the funk and into a canyon

Packages had arrived at my mail forwarder in Quartzsite, so I headed up there. No hurry, since they’re not open on Sundays, so I braved the washboard road to Palm Canyon and hiked it again—this time with the video camera.

Grab the pliers

At least it wasn’t a dog and porcupine situation

Absent and unaccounted for

Lately my mind has been wandering around a lot of place the rest of me hasn’t been. And none of those places was worthy of a blog post. Or appropriate for public consumption. But i’m here. Things are fine. I hope they are for you, too.

Oh yeah, that's what warm is

No, it’s not real winter here in southern Arizona, but it’s chilly enough at night and early morning that I can’t go around in sandals, shorts and a t-shirt. And I’ve acclimated enough to not need serious winter clothing or bedding. I run the stove for a couple of minutes to cut the chill in the Rolling Steel Tent and all is good.

But those times I have access to modern plumbing I get a little shock to the system. Oh, I didn’t realize how cold my hands were. The hot water feels really nice, warming me to the bone. Mmmmmmmm, yesssssss… 

That’s better

Farther from town, farther from the freeway, farther from other campers.

This morning I took my sweet time getting out of bed. I was so happy to be bundled under the covers while breathing cool, crisp air. But I started thinking about breakfast. Cinnamon & spice oatmeal with a pile of dried cranberries? Or corned beef hash and eggs with cheese and salsa? Well, neither if I don’t get up. 

By the highway

Sometimes I’m fine camping in not-so-out-of-the-way spots. Sometimes being handy to services for a couple of days is more important than solitude and quietude. So here are the Rolling Steel Tent and I, at Scaddan Wash in Quartzsite, I-10 in my front yard, other weirdos like me within spittin' distance.