The old stomping grounds

Just about any journey along the California coast will pass through or near the places I once called home. Today I’m in Orange County where I lived in Costa Mesa, Corona del Mar, Irvine and Huntington Beach. There have been many changes since I first arrived here in 1976, fresh out of college, and when I left in 1995 (with a few years in Silicon Valley and San Francisco inserted in there). Not all the changes have been for the better, but it’s still very familiar.

This is where I grew into adulthood and into something more closely resembling my authentic self. Although I haven’t lived here in 30 years I still feel like a Californian. I never felt like a North Carolinian even though I resided there eighteen years.

But “Californian” feels less a part of my identity since I adopted the wandering life eleven years ago. Now I’m mostly just a human. Or some sort of living creature. I think.

So, anyway, today I spent a couple of hours walking in the Upper Newport Bay Nature Preserve. (Yay! Something that hasn’t been developed!) I chuckled when the view from the parking lot included the building where I worked at my first real post-college job, with an office and a desk and a paid parking spot. The top executive’s offices faced the ocean. The best we lesser beings had was a view of a gated community/golf course, if we had a window at all. Now I get a view of that office tower and get to say, “Neener neener neener, you folks are in there working and I’m out strolling in nature.”

A sea of opinions

Opinion 1: Not every day is a perfect beach day.

Opinion 2: Any day at the beach is perfect.

Wait, this isn’t Utah

I had it all figured out. I would spend time with a friend in Flagstaff, travel across the Navajo Nation, then turn north into Utah, explore Butler Wash and the canyons of Comb Ridge, then go northwest to Goblin Valley and more canyon hikes, then north to the Wedge and Little Grand Canyon, then onward to my sister in the northern part of the state. After that, up to Wyoming, Montana, Idaho and Washington before crossing to Vancouver Island and finishing up the summer with a slow meander down the Pacific Coast.

But things happen. I make dubious decisions. Plans change.

It all started during the drive from Yuma to Flagstaff and the stops between. Something was off with the Rolling Steel Tent. Going uphill I’d press on the gas pedal, the engine would rev up, but the van went only a tiny bit faster or got bogged down by the incline. I’d need to have the engine howling in second gear just to keep moving forward. My amateur mechanic self was convinced the torque converted was going bad. Or something.

So during the days I was snowed in I decided I should return to Yuma and, if the torque converter was bad, have it replaced under the parts and labor warranty from the mechanic who last worked on the transmission. If I could make it back. At least the trip would be mostly downhill or flat.

I wanted to avoid I-17 because of the steep uphill grade out of Camp Verde. Besides, the last time I took I-17 it was stop-and-go for about 25 miles. So I took Lake Mary Road south to Highways 87 and 260 to Payson, then I continued south on 87 but, to avoid the grade over the north end of the Superstition Mountains I too 188 past Roosevelt Lake to Globe, then US 60 around the south end of the Superstitions, where I camped for the weekend.

The van was doing its disturbing thing during the Flagstaff-to-Payson leg of the trip, but by the tine I reached the moderate climb out of Roosevelt Lake things seem mostly okay. But when I suspect something isn’t right I keep looking for signs — and anything can be a sign. Was that it? Or was that normal? Do I even remember what normal is like?

The drive from Phoenix to Yuma seemed, well, normal. Had the Rolling Steel Tent cured itself? But that was cruising on mostly flat land at 70-75 miles per hour and the problem had been showing up in the 45-60 MPH range, with hills.

I showed up at the mechanic’s Monday morning expecting to be out of my home for a few days. But at least a hotel would keep me out of the 100° heat. Money would be an issue, especially if the mechanical problem was something unrelated to the previous work and therefore not covered by the warranty.

I spent a few hours semi-relaxing in the rather nice waiting room, then the mechanic informed me he hadn’t been able to duplicate the problem I had described, and everything seemed normal. Well………. okay then.

So, there I was in Yuma, in the hot, dry desert that I normally love, but the idea of going to Utah for more desert — even though it has red rocks and slot canyons and hoodoos and ruins and other cool stuff — just didn’t appeal to me.

After mulling it over last night I decided to do my summer travels backwards, starting at the Coast. Man, I’ve been missing the ocean.

Oh, and the Rolling Steel Tent performed like a champ over the mountain range that separates the desert from the coast.

I was spotted

I don’t try to be well known. I don’t have a big social media presence. I just write this blog and keep family and a few friends updated regarding my whereabouts using Facebook.

Yet there I was, in a Walmart parking lot, having lunch and goofing around on the computer, door open to let in the excellent weather, when a guy approached.

“Are you the Rolling Steel Tent guy?”

“Yes.”

“I thought you might be, but I wasn’t sure until I saw your fridge. I’ve been following your blog for a while.”

In the course of the conversation he referred to some things I had written, so, yeah, he has been reading me. And he remembered me from a Rubber Tramp Rendezvous, which surprised me.

If the RTR needs to morph once again, I suggest Bob just has us gather in some Walmart parking lot. That’s where we seem to run into each other anyway. I once unexpectedly crossed paths with a nomad friend at a Walmart on the outskirts of Albuquerque.

My visitor explained that after a period of nomading had settled back into his house. But he realized he didn’t really want to be there anymore, that he couldn’t stand being in just one place. Now he’s back on the road. That happens to a lot of folks.

Attack of the styrofoam

Last night, in May for Pete’s sake, we had more frozen stuff fall from the sky. I thought it was sleet but my full-of-information friend Karin explained these snow pellets are called graupel. It’s from the German for pearl barley.

I think the weather gods knew of my plans to head to lower elevations tomorrow and wanted to treat me before I left to a form of precipitation I had never experienced before. Um, thanks?

Meanwhile, friends in Truckee thought they had seen the last of winter and removed their snow tires. Then it snowed a foot. Note to self: Even with the promise of spring (maybe summer) skiing, stay out of the Sierras for a while.

But thanks for the water!

Walk about

I strolled around the new campsite and noticed some interesting things. Atop an old Ponderosa pine stump were the remains of a squirrel’s pinecone snack. I never would’ve imagined they peeled the husk from pine nuts. Or maybe this was just one picky squirrel.

Then I saw the remains of a campfire. Evidently the campers were the type to follow all of Smoky Bear’s guidelines for extinguishing campfires. I assume they poured water on the ashes before, as you see, covering them with dirt and rocks. They also neatly organized their leftover wood. Thoughtful campers.

On the other hand, there was evidence of thoughtless campers. I gathered up this bottle and others.

Besides the forest, there were signs I was up out of the desert. One was the ground littered with pinecones rather than cholla pods. (They crunch but don’t stab you.) The other was moss.

I’ll be here a couple more days before heading northward, back into treeless desert. But there’s more forests ahead this summer.

Relocation day

The folks I’ve been camping with had already been at the dispersed Forest Service campsite a week when I joined them. Now, a week later, their 14 days were up and they needed to move. So I followed to the new site where we have a view of Humphrey’s Peak. Not bad.