Walking along the cliffs

If I were a kayaker I could have this beach to myself

This would not be the safest place to swim

The wrong turn was the correct turn

Something like this simulation

There was road construction at the freeway on-ramp. Barriers and cones and heavy equipment confused things. it wasn’t until I had turned onto what I thought was the on-ramp that I realized I was on a parallel surface street—and I didn’t know where it led. Rats.

But then I saw the freeway traffic next to me was creeping to a stop. And up ahead were flashing blue and red lights. Whew, dodged that mess. I figured I’d stay on the surface street until it became a problem, then work things out from there. Lo and behold, surprise surprise, the street went exactly where I needed to be.

This reminds me of Douglas Adam’s protagonist in Dirk Gently’s Holistic Detective Agency and the sequil The Long Dark Tea-Time of the Soul who says, “I may not have gone where I intended to go, but I think I have ended up where I needed to be.”

Like Malibu, but without the fire devastation and stuff

Avila Beach is just up the coast from Pismo Beach. The way the road runs between a mountain and the shore reminds me of sections of Pacific Coast Highway through Malibu.

But unlike in Malibu, this highway doesn’t carry a constant flow of heavy traffic up and down California. There’s only one access road off US101 to the town of Avila Beach, and it’s a dead end. So it’s quieter here. Well, at least today, since it’s not the weekend. Too bad there’s this:

UPDATE: At about 4:30 there started to be a constant stream of traffic. Now it’s backed up to a crawl. Because it’s quitting time at the Diablo Canyon Power Plant that’s past the gate at the dead end I mentioned above. Ah, okay.

Duck duck goose

A fraction of the flock, Santa Maria, California

Denmark-ish

At the end of the 19th century, my paternal great-grandfather and his family, which included a toddler who would become my grandfather, immigrated from Denmark.

In the early 20th century, three Danish immigrants—two reverends and a professor—established Solvang, California with the intent to preserve and promote Danish culture. These Danes had no connection with my ancestors.

After the Second World War the citizens of Solvang decided to redesign the town's facade to resemble a traditional Danish village in order to add tourism to the town’s agricultural economy. Today less than 15% of Solvang’s residents claim Danish ancestry.

Now here I am, a guy who’s one-quarter Dane, with a Danish surname, hanging out in Hans Christian Andersen Park. Frankly, the center of town is too touristy for my tastes (though I’ll be stopping at a souvenir shop to get a sticker for my wall). The park is nice and neutral, with no faux old style Scandinavian architecture. Just the natural coastal hills and woodlands.

Since tomorrow is my 73rd birthday, I’ll celebrate with a hotel room, get myself all scrubbed and polished, and maybe have a dinner of Stegt Flæsk or Røget Laks.

Two fewer things to worry about. For now.

I stepped up to the counter and showed my ID to the Postal Service guy with waist-length silver hair. “General Delivery,” I said. He wrote my name on a piece of receipt paper then disappeared into the back.

I waited. And waited. It was technically five days since my replacement debit card had been mailed. Would it be here? Would I need to come back Monday? Or even Tuesday?

But before my anxiety got too high, Mr. Silverhair reappeared holding an envelope. Yup, from Wells Fargo. Yup, I could feel the card inside. Yay! I thanked the clerk and told him I envied his hair. (Any hair, actually.)

I drove to an ATM to activate the card and check my balance. Ah, my Social Security had been credited to my account. Double yay! I can go another three weeks or so before I start worrying whether the Social Security Administration has gone to hell.

Among my notices from the bank was a list of all my autopay recipients. So I’ll spend the afternoon updating account information—for some of them.

On today's stroll

Just some time by the sea

 

Well, that’s inconvenient

I was wrapping up an evening of video streaming when this arrived in my email:

Yeah nope, that wasn’t me. So I called the number and talked to a nice guy who had a slight Upper Midwest accent. We got everything sorted out and squared away. They’ll send me a new card. It will arrive in “five to seven days.” 

In the meantime, my current card is useless. I have 44 dollars of cash at the moment, a nearly full gas tank, and my stockpile of food, so I’ll be okay for the week. Or more.

Getting a new card number will be an annoyance and an opportunity. I’ll need to update my various auto-pay accounts. But I can also discontinue some subscriptions (including ones I’ve forgotten about) without jumping through their hoops. I just won’t give them my new number. Yay, savings!

However, something was still bugging me as I went to sleep. I had loosely planned on staying here in Pismo Beach for a week or more, but that was flexible, that was my free choice. Now I must stay. I feel trapped. I’m too accustomed to lack of restraints. But I’m a big boy, so…

Climate change

Lake Isabella (a reservoir, actually) is near the southern end of the Sierra Nevada range that divides the desert from the rest of California. After spending a couple of nights there I crossed the farming and oil country of the Central Valley and climbed into the Coastal Range. That’s where things were noticeably greener.

I don’t remember seeing this area so lush before. I guess I had always been here in the dry seasons when the dominant colors are brown and beige. But it’s spring and there has been a decent amount of rain. In fact, it rained last night here in Pismo Beach, and it’s misting this morning. We should get more tomorrow. It’s a welcomed change, even though it’s a bit chilly.

Loaded up

With inflation, deportation of farm and food processing labor, and uncertainty about Social Security, I’ve been stocking up on food. A section of my floor that used to contain only my quilt in a duffle bag is now filled with containers of nonperishable food. Plus there’s more in the cupboard. Rice, lentils, oatmeal, ramen, soup, chili, peanut butter, dried fruit, canned meats, canned veggies… 

Food, fuel, phone and insurance are my main expenses. I have some money in savings, and I have a little over a week to see whether April’s Social Security gets deposited. Once I get to the Pacific Northwest I won’t be doing much driving until late autumn. I might need to find some type of job.

Yes, anxiety is high, things are uncertain. I try (with some success) to stay calm and positive. And I wish the best for the rest of you.

Well, that’s something different

When my eyes are closed in the dark, I usually “see” blotches of dark color floating in blackness. (I was puzzled by a college friend who claimed to see no colors, only black, when his eyes were closed. Was that actually the case, or was he not fully observant?)

However, last night I “saw” something totally new to me. Somewhere around 2:00 AM I rose to consciousness but still had my eyes closed. At that moment, for about two seconds, in sharp detail, I perceived a dense cluster of carbonation bubbles swirling in a clear liquid against a pale gray background. Sort of like this image I created with artificial intelligence:

Now, I know my usual blotches are the product of the vision part of my brain, independent of light coming through my eyes. And I know our brains can create images in dreams, or when we’re imagining or remembering things while awake. But why carbonation bubbles, of all things? And why at that particular moment of transition from sleep? Was my brain saying, “Here’s something to occupy your mind for a while. Enjoy.” For whatever reason (or for no reason) I can still recall that image. And write about it.

A 350-mile slog across the desert

At sunrise I packed up the Rolling Steel Tent and rolled out of my campsite on Snowbird Mesa/Poverty Flats just outside Overton Moapa Valley, Nevada. 

Then I blasted south on I-15—until I hit commuter traffic in Las Vegas. A good chunk of the 1.7 million adults in the Las Vegas-Henderson-Paradise, NV Metropolitan Statistical Area, plus truckers passing through, plus me, were creeping along slower than the 35 MPH posted on the overhead digital speed limit signs controlled by someone or something somewhere. Sometimes we weren’t moving at all. But things opened up past Tropicana Boulevard, and the drive continued on. Past Jean. Past Primm. Into California.

I was more than ready for breakfast when I got to Baker. It had been about a decade since I had eaten at the Mad Greek. At that time it was a set up like a typical cafe. Sit at a table or at the counter, waitress takes your order, etc. Now the counter is gone, and so are the servers. Instead there are McDonald’s-style touch screens, with an interesting difference. Rather than numbered table tents, the Mad Greek has buzzing pagers. You pick up your order when it goes off. Well, when you’re in a tiny slowly-dying town with a very limited labor pool, businesses (and customers) need to adjust. 

The Bacon Scrambowl (a scramble in a bowl) was rather tasty, although the “bowl” was a pressed cardboard tray thing.

With my stomach happy, I continued on to Barstow where I took Highway 58 to its junction with US 395. I turned north. My “plan” was to get as far as Ridgecrest and then decide whether I wanted to go all the way to Lone Pine, or turn west to Lake Isabella. By the time I reached the decision point I had talked myself out of Lone Pine. First was the fact the BLM had made parts of Alabama Hills out of bounds for camping and had set up designated campsites. So I might not be able to get a spot. Second was that my favorite spot, where I could get a cell signal, was technically off BLM territory, and the owner (PG&E, or Los Angeles County, or some such thing) had started enforcing the no trespassing rules. There are a couple of small campgrounds in the area, but I figured they would be full because of decreased camping at Alabama Hills. I would miss the dramatic views, and the showers at the hostel, but, um, oh well. So onward to Lake Isabella.

There are a few Forest Service campgrounds around the lake. I decided to stay at Paradise Cove, a place  I had never seen occupied on my previous visits. I thought it might be abandoned. But there were a couple occupied spots today, so okay.

The camp hosts came around to collect the fee. One of them said,  “It’s kind of warm today but it cools down nicely after sunset.”  I explained I had come from the desert, so the 75-ish temperature they thought was warm was perfect for me.

I’m tempted to stay a few days, but the fee is kind of spendy. So it’s off to the coast tomorrow, a trip that’s only half as long as today’s journey.

Lots o’ rocks

It has been very warm, so I wanted to get to Valley of Fire State Park early enough to finish a hike before the heat of the day. I got there at 7:15 and the entry booth wasn’t open yet, so I did the iron ranger thing, paying five extra dollars because I didn’t have exact change. No big deal. The visitor center was also not open yet, so I would need to wait until I left to get a commemorative sticker for my wall.

There weren’t more than a handful of other visitors at that hour, with only two other vehicles at the Fire Wave trailhead when I got there. That’s nice. The hike was enjoyable.

As I sat at the end of the trail, enjoying the view, other hikers started showing up. I started wondering why most of them were families with school aged kids. It’s Tuesday. Didn’t they have school? And didn’t at least one of the parents need to be at work? Did they work night shifts? Or was there some holiday I didn’t know about? Oh well.

It was warm enough to induce sweat by the time I got back to the Rolling Steel Tent. And the parking lots and pullouts along the road back to the visitor center were full. Time to go. I got a sticker then headed back to camp, where a slight breeze kept the heat at bay.

Why do I do this?

Every now and then I realize something about myself I hadn’t previously noticed. I suppose that happens with most people, except those who are totally unself-aware. (I checked: unself-aware is an acceptable antonym of self-aware.)

So, I had settled into bed last night, gotten the pillows and bedding adjusted to my liking, and was positioned comfortably, when I noticed I was lightly pinching the bridge of my nose, like this:

I knew I had done this many times before. Why? My nose, sinuses, and eyes were fine. So this wasn’t about pain, itchiness, or whatever. 

I let go of my nose and moved my hand. That felt wrong. I wasn’t as comfortable. My hand was just… hanging there. 

I repositioned my arm. Not quite right.

I repositioned my head. Nope.

I repositioned my torso. Mmmm, not right.

I ended up rearranging my entire body.

I wondered if my nose touching was linked back to a childhood comforting technique. Was this something I did after giving up thumb sucking? When I do this is it a sign of stress, anxiety, or something? Or is it simply a way to signal to my system it’s time to go into sleep mode? I’ll have to sleep on that.

Not taking the short way

A few days ago I posted I was leaving the desert and going to the coast. Well, I’m still in the desert, just farther north, near Lake Havasu City. I’m going to do laundry and a little shopping, then probably continue north to Lake Mead and Valley of Fire State Park. Then maybe west through Death Valley to the Eastern Sierras. After some time at Alabama Hills I might jog south to Lake Isabella and Kernville for a bit, then finally cross the Central Valley from Bakersfield to Santa Maria.

Because, what’s the hurry? Why the destination fixation? I’m not my father with his Point-A-to-Point-B-in-minimal-time mentality. Or I try not to be when I feel that slipping into my thinking. No. I’ll get to the ocean when I get there.

Let the migration begin

The forecast says temperatures here in the low latitude/low elevation parts of the desert will be in the 90s in the next week. Time to move from my winter habitat. It’s still cold to the north. Meanwhile things look pretty good at the coast—at least in the lower part, like up to Pismo Beach/San Luis Obispo/Morro Bay. No sweltering days or freezing nights.

So I observed the Vernal Equinox today by hitting the road. I plan to bypass the San Diego-Los Angeles megalopolis this time by sneaking in the back way. From here to Barstow,  to Bakersfield, to Santa Maria. Or something like that. I’ll be missing some of my favorite beaches, but I’ll also be missing the traffic. 

The idea is to replicate last summer’s wanderings up the coast to the Pacific Northwest, minus the Canada part. Then I might go through Washington, Idaho and Montana in early autumn. I have a half year to figure that out.

Wet and wild

A storm blew in this afternoon. And by “blew” I mean 30-50 MPH wind hitting the Rolling Steel Tent broadside. Shake shake shake, shake shake shake. Shake my va-an. Shake my va-an.

There was some rain the other day, but it was a genteel drizzle that slightly dampened the ground and dried up shortly after sunrise. Today’s rain came down in hard diagonal bursts. The forecast is guessing a couple more hours of this. I slipped out during a calm moment to take photos.

I had planned on staying here a few more days. Now the storm is saying, “Yeah, you will definitely be staying put until the ground gets drier and firmer.” The way out isn’t all desert pavement, so it’s better to sit tight. No problem. I have plenty of supplies and nowhere I need to be.

Crank ‘er over

Yesterday I did some online price comparisons for the replacement battery. NAPA, the closest source, didn’t show the prices. Hmmm. So what about Walmart? That’s where the now-dead battery was from. The price had been very low, and it lasted longer than expected. How much had prices gone up in seven years? About double. 

For reference I checked O’Reilly. Whoo! Their cheapest battery was 250% higher than my old one. AutoZone, 200% higher. Interstate Batteries wanted 150% more.

All those alternatives would mean driving to Buckeye, Mariposa, or Casa Grande. So I figured I’d at least check at NAPA before burning a bunch of gasoline.

Small town service can be slow. There was one customer ahead of me, getting wiper blades and some type of fluid. And the solo clerk seemed s-o-o-o-o s-l-o-o-o-o. While waiting I wondered if they would even have the battery I needed in stock. But they did, and the price was low enough. So, tah-dah! 

Steak and potato y frijoles soup

I’m not a fan of Campbell’s soups. They’re essentially a delivery medium for salt. But I was stocking my larder at Grocery Outlet a while back and there was a good deal on Campbell’s Chunky Steak and Potato soup (The Soup the Eats Like a Meal®) and thought, eh, I could do something with that.

Fast forward a couple of months and I did something with that. I added some dehydrated refried beans. That thickened the broth/gravy and blunted the saltiness a bit. The result was much better.

I have some other soup enhancement ideas I’ll try in the future. Rice, lentils, dehydrated mixed veggies, crushed tomatoes…

Chillin' on the patio

After making a run to town for bread and cheese I cruised back through the camping area south of Ajo to see which sites were now available. My number one favorite spot was occupied, but my second favorite—one I call the Patio—was available.

The Patio is the former slab foundation of what I’m guess was once a mine related building. Though it’s a bit busted up in places, it’s level and I don’t need to worry about tracking in dirt. And the view is nice.

Wind the clock back a bit. When I came out of the grocery the Rolling Steel Tent wouldn’t start. The engine wouldn’t turn over. Sigh. The cheap seven year old battery had finally slipped into a coma. Lead-acid batteries have a typical lifespan of three to five years, so I had gotten my money’s worth.

I got out the jumper cables and connected them to the house battery. I turned the key. Click. Click. (Come on babe) Click. Vroom. There we go.

The only place in Ajo that might have batteries is the NAPA store. I drove over and discovered it was closed, it being Sunday and such. So I turned around and discovered the Patio was available.

Now it’s Monday morning. I could jumpstart the van again and go get a battery. But I don’t need to go today. I’m not ready to leave the area. So I’ll just sit here another few days. Then, if NAPA doesn’t have my particular battery, I’ll go to a larger town with more options. Tucson? Phoenix? We’ll see.

Ramen Italiano, a.k.a. spagramen

I have a few meals I whip up when I want something fast and easy and cheap. And doesn’t taste horrible. You probably do, too.

A while back, while eating instant ramen, I had the urge to make a little something more of it. After all, real ramen includes a broth, some vegetables, maybe some meat and an egg. Even if I had the ingredients it would be a more involved process. And I wanted to eat right then.

The creative part of my brain said, “Although Italians would vehemently object, instant ramen noodles are essentially wiggly spaghetti pasta.”

Ah-HA!

I had a jar of arrabbiata sauce. I poured some on the ramen. It was delicious and gratifying. Another time I used some sun-dried tomato pesto. Also delicious and gratifying. I might pick up some Alfredo sauce one of these days.

Some folks probably say I should just use real pasta. Sometimes I do (that’s why I had the sauces) but since ramen noodles are pre-cooked they’re ready much sooner.

Boom boom boom boom

Ajo, Arizona, is on the edge of the Barry M. Goldwater Air Force Range. It’s common to hear and see planes like the A-10 Thunderbolt (a.k.a. Warthog) doing practice runs.

Occasionally — like this morning — they drop or fire some very heavy stuff. Even though the closest part of the range is five miles away I could feel the shockwave from the explosions. The Rolling Steel Tent shook and, even though I was inside with the door closed, my chest vibrated. The experience taught me shockwaves travel faster than the speed of sound, because I felt the explosions a fraction of a second before I heard them. Also, since sound waves degrade over distance (imagine the racket we’d live with if they didn’t) the huge boom I heard here was much louder at the source. It has been a few hours since the explosions. I hope that was all for today. And tomorrow. And the next day…

“Boom Boom” John Lee Hooker with Big Head Todd and the Monsters

Back to the saguaro zone

Today I picked up where my previous excursion left off. I headed east from Yuma again, stopped in Gila Bend for some carnitas tacos at a family-run restaurant, then continued south to one of my favorite places, Ajo. Smooth sailing, particularly with the first several miles of AZ-85 having been repaved since the last time I made the trip. I found a nice campsite off Darby Well Road and settled in. Good change of scenery.

Time shift

 It’s twelve days until Daylight Saving Time and less than a month until the Vernal Equinox. Winter is winding down. There’s more daylight. Blessed daylight. Hallelujah for daylight! 

In the pit of winter the sun wouldn’t rise until 7:30 and it would set at 4:30. Now there’s about an hour more at the beginning and end of the day. Case in point, here’s the sun hitting the horizon at 5:33 PST, on the very eastern edge of the time zone. What an improvement!

A taxing morning

Back in, oh, 2015 or so, my tax accountant told me I didn’t need to file my taxes anymore if my only income was Social Security. Well, cool. One less hassle.

But I saw a video yesterday that had me questioning his professional advice. He has since retired, so I couldn’t simply call or email him to learn whether tax law regarding my situation had changed in the past decade. I asked the All-knowing Gods of the Internet instead. 

“Are there federal taxes on Social Security retirement?”

The answer was, “It depends.” Not if my SS was less than this number, but X% of my income would be taxable if it was between this number and this other number. I fell into the latter group.

I figured I should do the responsible thing and find out how much I might owe and whether I could pay it.

First I tried signing into TurboTax but got in a dead end loop with account verification. So I went directly to the IRS and learned they had free online filing. Cool. But first I needed to set up an ID.me account. That was a process. Fill out name, phone and email, take the verification number they sent me and enter it, use the link they sent me to take photos of two forms of ID, get another verification number, take a video of myself to match against the IDs. Answer some questions about whether I was doing this on my own or whether someone else was making me do it, get on a video conference call so they could see me live and judge how easily I replied to more questions, then finally get cleared with them and the IRS.

Then it was back to the IRS site to be guided through the questions on the tax form. That was easy but tedious. When it was all through, they said I didn’t owe anything. So all that work to end up where I was with my previous semi-ignorant assumptions. A little peace of mind, I guess.

The Great Burrito Search: Candidate 3 and sort of 4

Today I tried a joint farther south on 4th Avenue: Yuma’s Red Taco. It’s a new-ish place. Last winter, while the store was being readied, they had a taco truck out front. I didn’t stop by back then because the small parking lot was filled with contractors’ vehicles, customers and, of course, the taco truck. 

The speciality at Yuma’s Red Taco—in fact, about the only thing on the menu—is birria in one form or another. The story goes that birria comes from Jalisco and was inspired by similar stewed meat dishes introduced by the Spanish. Birria can be made with goat, mutton or beef, with the latter being the case here. And the recipe can vary a lot, depending on the spices and chiles used.

I’ve had some uninspiring birria before, so I didn’t want to commit to an entire burrito. So I ordered a taco. And it was very good, especially with the onions, cilantro, fresh lime juice, and a fiery but flavorful salsa.

I rate Yuma’s Red Taco an A-. I’ll be back for a burrito. Monday-Saturday 7AM to 9 PM, Sunday 7AM to 7PM.

On the way out of town, at the north end of 4th Avenue, I stopped by Mr. G’s Drive-In. It’s owned and operated by the same outfit as The Chile Pepper restaurant on 24th Street. They’ve also taken over the former location of my former favorite, Diego’s. So, whether they’re any good or not, they’re a big player around here.

The menu boards in Mr. G’s are crammed with small type and not-very-clear descriptions. That’s probably not a problem for regular customers, but I was wanting binoculars. I eventually found the listing for burritos and decided to try something new for me: a green chili burrito.

It was on the small side, but it was pretty good. Even better with the red salsa included in the bag. Although the burrito was flavorful I didn’t feel like I’d had a burrito eating experience. It’s not high on my list of things to eat again. Nevertheless, I give it a B+. Monday-Saturday 7AM to 9PM, Sunday 8AM to 8PM.