The non-pursuit of happiness

What if happiness isn’t something we need to work for, chase after, earn, buy? What if happiness is always there but hidden by the other crap of life — some of which is dumped upon us, and some of which is self-inflicted? What if we walk past happiness every day as we go searching for it? What if happiness isn’t a slippery thing out there eluding us but rather something inside us that is too often ignored, dormant, or even suppressed?

The longer I live my simple, uncomplicated nomadic life the more this seems to be true. Happiness doesn’t arrive, it blooms from within.

That’s my deep thought for the day.

Not quite what I had expected

Southern Arizona is hot, right? Or at least hotter than most places. That’s why snowbirds and other cold weather avoiders go there. 

So when I volunteered to help a friend move into Sierra Vista, which is one of the farthest south cities in Arizona (about 16 miles from the border) I worried it might still be summer-ish there. However, I hadn’t considered elevation. Sierra Vista is at about 4,500 feet.

That’s why the Rolling Steel Tent was only 35°F when I woke up this morning. That’s colder than my refrigerator (37°F). Burrrrrr. Turn on the stove then scoot back under the covers for a while.

But the surprise before the morning temperature was that the popular Las Cienegas National Conservation Area outside Sierra Vista was nearly empty of campers. That’s opposite of my last two visits here. Maybe everyone else is avoiding cold nights. That just means more peace and privacy for me. A little shivering is a small price to pay.

I couldn’t hang around

After voting in Silver City I went to visit Pat and Margene — Lou’s friends who became my friends. They live across the highway from Lou’s former place (hereafter referred to as LFP). 

Although junipers and yuccas block part of the view of LFP, I could see the new owner had added a large shed and that a Class A motorhome was parked next to the house. Pat, who had been over to meet the new owners, filled me in on the other changes. They had brought in a second shipping container, and added to the fencing so as to contain a horse. No big deal. But the thing that would have offended Lou was they had painted over all the wood on and in the house.

Former owners — particularly deceased owners — have no say in what happens to their property after they sell it. So the new owners of LFP are free to do whatever they want with the place.  After all, the former owners of my house might have been upset I scraped off all the wallpaper, ripped up all the carpeting, and completely remodeled the kitchen. They might have had sentimental attachments to the way it was. And I can tell from Google Street View the current owner of my former house has made a lot of changes that I would have resisted. But it’s her right because it’s now her home.

But logic doesn’t keep me from resenting changes to LFP. I still have attachments to it. I helped build it. I cleaned and maintained it. I lived in it for a couple of months. It was my best friend’s dream house. He was very particular about it. It was an expression of who he was.

So even though Margene and Pat were gracious hosts, inviting me to watch the World Series, feeding me waffles, and letting me use the shower, I needed to get out of there. Too many bittersweet memories. Too much sadness. And some anger starting to brew in me. I’m back in the boonies, doing some venting and healing and remembering. Always remembering.

Yin and yang take a diversion

As I was returning to Silver City to vote I passed many memory-evoking places. Places I had been with Lou. One of the spots was the Grant County airport. You can’t see it very well from the highway, but every time Lou and I passed it he would crane his neck and say something like, “I think that’s the tower. I wonder if they have (insert aeronautic jargon here).” Lou was a pilot, so he was curious about things like that.

One day, since I was driving, I turned onto the airport road. Surprised and somewhat alarmed, Lou cried, “Where are you going?!?”

“To look at the damned airport you keep wondering about.”

“Oh,” he replied, somewhat delighted but mostly ill at ease because this was a break from the expected, a variation in the routine. Lou needed to feel in control. I understood that because he had lived through some unstable years. 

On the other hand, I had developed sort of a Zen approach to life. I had accepted (mostly?) that there wasn’t much I could control — or that I needed to control. Flow with the river, Grasshopper. Perhaps my rather benign life had allowed me the luxury of seeing things that way. 

So Lou and I were kind of yin and yang — opposites that somehow fit well together. I miss that man.

Choices: what to do or who to be?

A short video about making life choices showed up on my Instagram feed. When a decision is difficult, and you’ve weighed the usual pros and cons, perhaps there’s another question to be asked: What kind of person do I want to become?

That reminded me of my decisions that led to me living in a van. I never consciously thought about what kind of person I wanted to become, but looking back I can see how it was implied in my thought processes. I certainly didn’t want to remain the kind of person I had already become — overworked, stressed, bored, depressed, stagnating, trapped...

Perhaps if younger me had considered as part of my decisions the kind of person I wanted to be I wouldn't have gotten to that overworked, stressed, bored, depressed, stagnating, trapped place. Perhaps my life would have been fuller. But I’m happy I eventually made the change, because now I feel much more like the kind of person I want to be.

The phases of water

I went south, in part, to escape water falling from the sky. So here I am, camped by water that fell from the sky as far away as Colorado. This works better for me.

Wherein I make a blasphemous statement

 

Well, well, well, look who’s here.

I haven't seen you in many a year.

If I knew you were comin’ I’d ’ve baked a cake,

baked a cake, baked a cake.

If I knew you were comin’ I’d ’ve baked a cake.

How-ja do. How-ja do, How-ja do.

My friend Michael (who frequently comments here, and who I hadn't seen in many a year) knew I would be passing through Albuquerque, where he lives, so he emailed me:

I’ve gotten on a pie & quiche making kick and would like to gift you with one or both.

He didn’t need to bribe — a simple invitation would’ve sufficed — but free baked goods is a happy bonus. So now I have these two beauties. Michael is especially proud of the crust.

It was dinner time when I reached my day’s destination, so my meal started with the quiche. I don’t think I’ve had quiche since the 80s. (We had been told Real Men Don’t Eat Quiche, but I figured real men could eat whatever they wanted. So I defiantly ate quiche back then. Most of it was meh. And the mini-quiche hors d’oeuvres were awful.) Michael’s quiche was absolutely delicious! And, OMG! The crust!

The apple-pear pie was wonderful! My mother was a fantastic baker of pies, cakes, cookies and bread. I know it’s blasphemy to say this, but I like Michael’s pie better than Mom’s. But, you know, my tastes have changed during all the years since. Mom’s apple pie was perfect for 1-20 year old me. I mean, you couldn’t have forced me to eat quiche back then. Egg pie? Ew, gross!

So thank you, Michael, for your gracious gift and for thinking of me, even if it puts me in hot water with Mom.

Where are you?

Welcome, much-needed rain. I’m out of here.

Storm’s a-brewin’

There had been attempts at rain the past week, with some brief successes. The long range forecasts for the region promised rain, with snow possible in some spots. The West needs rain. That doesn’t mean I have to enjoy it. It also meant it would be the wrong time to hike in the flood-prone canyons of southeastern Utah.

It’s also that time of year when the low elevations are still uncomfortably warm and the higher elevations are starting to freeze at night. Which tradeoff was I willing to make?

Underlying it all was my plan to return to southwestern New Mexico to vote. Yes, I could have voted by mail, but that would mean staying somewhere long enough to receive the ballot.

With more study of the forecasts and possible routes, I decided to make my way to Truth or Consequences/Elephant Butte. The weather looked to be dry and mild.

Thursday had been very windy and the sky clouded up earlier and more densely than previous days. It looked like serious rain was about to hit. The Rolling Steel Tent swayed all night. I was on the road south after breakfast.

Scenic Monument Valley

Then it started raining. Intermittent wipers at first, but constant speed by the time I passed Monument Valley. I stopped in Kayenta for a few supplies and got drenched while running into the market — and when running back to the van. 

The rain was steady and I expected the various washes and creeks to be flowing hard. But the earth had been so dry for so long that all the rain was being sucked up.

As I headed east from Ganado the raindrops got larger, then slushy. It was snowing but not really accumulating on the highway. Visibility wasn’t great but I followed the taillights of a tribal work truck over the pass and into Window Rock. The snow became rain again as we dropped in elevation.

It was mid afternoon so I stopped to get something to eat. I had originally thought I would get a room in Gallup and hang there a couple of days until the front passed. But I was tired. So even though Gallup was just 20 minutes down the road, I decided to get a room in Window Rock, the capital of the Navajo Nation. It’s quieter and far less crowded than Gallup. No Interstate, big rigs or trains.

Window Rock at Window Rock

The room is nice, the bed is comfortable, good wifi, hot running water, and free actual breakfast (not just a muffin). It froze overnight but it has thawed. There are patches of clear sky at the moment. But it’s still cold.

I’ll stay another night and then go to Elephant Butte State Park where the forecast is for days in the 70s and nights in the 40s. And no rain. Perfect vandwelling weather. I’ll probably buy a New Mexico Parks annual pass there, taking advantage of the lower price for us New Mexico residents.

Then it’s onward to Silver City and the Grant County clerk’s office to cast an early ballot. After that? We’ll see.

Losing my way — several times

The trail to Wild Horse Window — a pair of caves with a hole in one roof — starts with a clear, well used path down into a wash and out again. From there it crosses a large section of bare rock with gullies, drop-offs, and dead ends. This is the trickiest part of the trail. There’s no path and only occasional cairns, with at least one of them seeming to have been placed by someone hoping to send you in the wrong direction.

It’s up there somewhere

I don’t have a trail app, like Gaia or AllTrails, so I used Google satellite view to keep my bearings. But there’s only so much detail in those photos, especially since I was out of cell range and couldn’t use 3D view. So I did a lot of backtracking, including going all the way back to the wash. That’s not a huge deal, but the way to the Window is all uphill. So it was up and down and up and down.

Maybe the correct trail is over there

Sometimes there are footprints in occasional sandy patches to confirm you’re on the right path — or that others were just as lost

And except for a small group going the other way, I was alone. No one to follow. Or blame.

But I got there. Eventually. The odd thing is there are plenty of cairns near the destination, where the trail was already rather obvious.

Are you lookin’ at me?

I thought the return trip would be easy. All I had to do was keep heading toward the Rolling Steel Tent, which I could see back at the trailhead. But I found myself backtracking again and again. I started wishing there were occasional paint dots on the ground like I have seen at a couple of other bare rock trails. Oh well, I made it back.

This way out, right?

Wild Horse Window is about a two-mile round trip. My wanderings were probably 3.5 miles. It was worth it. Whee, a special route for more hiking fun! Good thing I had plenty of water. And the weather was perfect.

Eerie beauty

Plans not going as planned

I know better than to try certain things. But the crucial part is to actually think about those things for at least a few seconds before heading off.

Yesterday’s error was my lack of thought about it not only being a popular travel season in southeastern Utah’s National Parks, but also a weekend. Also also a three-day weekend for many folks. So, again, if I had even thought about it, I would have known it was foolish to assume there would even be parking anywhere near a popular trailhead like Hickman Bridge/Cohab Canyon. I mean, I knew Scenic Drive was closed for repairs, crowding more visitors into less area. I knew there would be a mess at the visitor center because part the parking lot was being reconfigured and resurfaced. But doo-da-doo-doo-doo, off I went. And it was the worst crowd I had ever seen there.

I had a vague back-of-the-mind alternate “plan” though. I knew of a boondocking area on Notom-Bull Frog Road, on the eastern side of the park. I could hang there a day or two then return to my original plan. But I’m not the only one familiar with that boondocking spot. It was full, except for a very tilted spot right by the road. In addition, there was no cell service. Not good.

Okay, fine, I would continue east to Hanksville. I needed bread and there’s a grocery there. Then I would go north to where I wanted to do some hiking in the canyons near Goblin Valley State Park. But the grocery was closed, I guess because they believe in observing the Sabbath.

Okay, fine, I would continue on to Goblin Valley, even though I knew that area would also be crowded. At least it wouldn’t be as crowded as Capitol Reef.

I found a site, even though it’s not as scenic as I would prefer. The better spots were occupied. Of course. But at least I have solitude where I can give greater thought to my plans.

We got a smattering of rain in the night. Maybe that was enough to rinse away my stupidity.

Modern archeology

This is not an ancient ruin, but it will be in a few centuries. Should I leave something in it to facilitate dating? A coin, maybe?

Gone to a better place

I griped a little that my camping neighbors, though well behaved, were a little closer than I liked. So when I finished yesterday’s hike I looked for a new boondocking spot. I found it on a less used road, in sort of a bowl. Less view, more privacy. Had to switch from my Verizon phone to my T-Mobile hot spot, though, which is not a problem. It’s good to spread my “unlimited” data around.

An easy trail, until...

Capitol Reef National Park has many popular and well-promoted trails. But this being one of the peak seasons I considered taking a less known trail. It might not be as spectacular as others, but it was more likely I’d have it all to myself. And I did. Well, except for one guy going the other way.

Sulphur Creek runs west to east through a rugged canyon a little south of Highway 24. The Sulphur Creek Trail runs from the highway to Sulphur Creek via a wiggly dry wash — about a four mile round trip. It’s easy walking with a very gradual slope, moving in and out of the shade of cliffs as the wash twists and turns.

But then, near the end of the trail, with Sulphur Creek in view, there’s a series of drop-offs ranging from about six to fifteen feet. Hmmm… How to get down? More critically, how to get back up?

I spent about fifteen minutes trying to find the way. I knew there must be a way because I could see footprints below.  I backtracked to see if there was a detour. None that I could see. Maybe I follow that narrow ledge around that point. It dead ended. I finally saw the crack with a series of step-like ledges. Spots along the rocks where hands and feet had rubbed off dirt and lichens were a reassuring sign.

The big question was whether my old man body was up for the task. Might I fall? Would I be able to heft myself back up? Should I just turn around short of the goal?

I went for it. I did not hurt myself.

The trail continues down Sulphur Creek, eventually reaching the Visitor Center. But the remainder for the trail requires a lot of bushwhacking, rock scrambling, or walking in the water. A notice at the trailhead warned of high e. coli levels in the water, so that was out.

I found a comfy rock and enjoyed the scenery for a while. Then I climbed back up the drop-off. The only damage was whacking my head on a overhanging rock I hadn’t seen because it had been hidden by my hat brim as I was concentrating on my foot placement and handhold. (There’s only a very slight bump and tender spot this morning.)

All-in-all, it was an enjoyable afternoon, in part because I chose to solve a problem rather than retreat.

So many words

I just noticed I've published 3,720 blog posts. That's an average of 338 posts a year for the eleven years I've been doing this. Not quite one a day.

That amazes me. 

I am not known as a talkative guy, but I guess writing is how I let it all out — whether anyone asked for it or not.

So thank you to those of you who follow my blatherings.

I miss isolation

If you’re a fairly normal person (which I pretend to be) then spring and autumn are the best times to visit the desert. It’s neither too hot nor too cold. Goldilocks time. Which means it’s more crowded.

I found a good campsite with a very nice view, but the neighbors are closer and more numerous than I prefer. At least they’ve been quiet. I think I’ll be here for a few days, so I’ll see whether the crowd thins out or gets worse. Fingers crossed.

Away to a waypoint

It felt like time to move on from Bryce Canyon. No particular reason other than my impulse to keep moving. But first a shower at the park’s general store. Three bucks for a token that’s good for five minutes. The token might have no cash value, but a nice hot shower makes me feel like a million bucks.

Although I had stocked up rather well in Kanab there were a couple of items I could only get at Walmart. The closest ones were in Cedar City to the west, Hurricane to the southwest, and Richfield to the north. Going to Cedar City would mean going over an 11,000 foot pass. Going to Hurricane would mean crawling through Zion National Park. Richfield — the farthest away — would be a leisurely drive, except for a few miles of I-15. And it would put me in better position for Cedar Breaks, Capitol Reef, Bears Ears, and Moab.

Having chosen Richfield, I had a few route options. I could go west on Highway 12 then take US89 all the way to Richfield. But I have driven that way many many times. Or I could take Highway 22/Johns Valley Road north through Black Canyon to Highway 62, then north to Highway 24 and west on Highway 119. I have been that way once before, only in the other direction. Or I could do a combination of the two, cutting through Kingston Canyon between 89 and 22. I had never driven Kingston Canyon, so that’s what I chose.

So I got my stuff at Walmart, and I filled the tank, but now what? It was late afternoon and I needed to decide where to spend the night. About nine or ten years ago I had overnighted at Walmart and the Flying J. Eh, I’d rather not. So I headed up into the mountains and found a spot with a view of the valley. It was a little trashy with a few beer containers scattered about, and a couple of deer carcasses, but it would do for a night. 

The Rolling Steel Tent hiding behind some trees

Now I’m off into the land of spotty cell service and spotty population. Oh, and weather that might be warmer than I’d like. But new experiences, man.

An increasingly rare meal

Yesterday a friend posted about a smoothie he makes. One of the ingredients was maple syrup. Naturally, maple syrup made me think of pancakes — even though I don’t put maple syrup on my pancakes. The flavor just, eh, doesn’t appeal to me.

Then this morning, as I was rearranging things in my cupboard, I came across the box of pancake mix hiding in the back. Man, how long had it been since I made pancakes?………. Over a year? At least. Why? I don’t know. I go through phases.

It was about lunchtime, and I hadn’t eaten yet, so pancakes. With only butter.

I enjoyed my flapjacks, but then I remembered why I hadn’t been making them very often. There’s more to clean up. I can usually do breakfast with just a pan, fork, spatula and plate. And I can clean them with just spritzes of water-vinegar mix. But pancakes require a measuring cup, mixing bowl, soft spatula for mixing, pan, spoon for moving batter to the pan, hard spatula, plate, and fork. And the bowl, spoon and soft spatula require several cups of water to clean off the batter residue, some of which dries and sticks to things. 

No, it’s not like I need to clean up a four-course meal for six with lots of greasy gooey crusty stuff. But I’ve gotten used to doing things very simply. Ideally, minimalism isn’t only about having less but also about doing less.

More Bryce Canyon