I’m going to be the jerk in this guy’s version of the story

So there I was this morning, camped in Vekol Valley, having some breakfast (oatmeal with some chili mango on the side) when a man walked by. Um okay, taking a shortcut through my campsite, I guess. He was carrying a step ladder, perhaps because he needed to get at something on an RV roof. But he set up the ladder about six paces from the rolling steel tent and fiddled with a piece of cloth attached to it. Rather than folding the ladder back up and proceeding on his way, he turned to me and asked, “Will you be here long?”

“Another day or two.”

“Oh. Then could you do me a favor and move to one of the other spots?”

Since my spot was sizable I thought perhaps he wanted to bring in a large rig or a group. He might have read the sorry-first-come-first-served-amigo expression on my face because he continued, “See, I’m going to be hitting some golf balls, and this is the largest clear patch for them to land. I don’t want to be hunting for balls among the bushes.”

“Um, why do you think you should be hitting balls around here?”

His expression seemed to say no one had ever questioned his desires or plans or his right to fulfill them. “Because it’s how I relax. And it’s allowed.”

“That doesn’t mean you must. Besides, you’re encroaching on others.”

He glared, then said insincerely as he stomped off, “Fine. Have a nice day.” He left the ladder where it was. If it’s his sign of dominance, or if he’s marking his territory, then I’ll pee on it later.

Change of direction

My urge to drift northward sort of vaporized sometime during the night and was replaced with the idea of going east instead. Then south, maybe.

That’s how I ended up camped at Saddle Mountain, near Tonopah AZ (not to be confused with much larger Tonopah NV). This patch of BLM had at least a couple of dozen rigs camped here the last time I visited. Today there are maybe six. So I had my choice of campsites. I got one at the end of one of the roads, at the base of the mountain. There’s no one near. I can see the traffic on I-10 from here, but it’s four miles away, so I hear nothing — except for the occasional fly buzzing past my head.

I need to be back in Quartzsite on the 28th to retrieve a package at my mail forwarder. That leaves me a week and a half to mess around, and to decide what to do next. If anything.

Washing and teaching

I did laundry this morning. The customers were the typical middle of a workday type: retirees and stay-at-home moms. But since schools were closed for Presidents Day, the mom’s had their kids with them. Things were calm, though.

Some earlier patrons had left used fabric softener sheets scattered about. Sigh. It happens all the time. I picked up the half dozen or so that were near me and put them in the very handy trash barrel. I left the others because I would have been bumping into folks.

Then I saw one of the kids, about seven or eight years old, picking up the rest of the discarded sheets. Ah, the powers of behavior modeling — though I imagine the boy had been raised right to begin with.

What is it?

After Joshua Tree I wanted to get someplace a little warmer and much less crowded. So I ended up about an hour and a half to the east, between Vidal Junction CA and Parker AZ. I had seen RVs camped in the area the times I had come this way, and there were some there this time. The question was how to access it. I saw an unpaved road and turned off the highway.

The road had been graded sometime in recent history, and the berms the grader had left along the shoulders limited where I could turn off. About two miles along I saw an opening to a patch with a fire ring. It wasn’t the greatest spot, but it would do. And the nearest neighbors were about a quarter mile away.

My old body was tired from hiking and driving, so I settled into the Rolling Steel Tent, made some dinner, and called it a day.

This morning I strolled around the area to see exactly where I was and what it was like. That’s when I found this:

Some strange geologic something-or-other? Perhaps the peak of an ancient upthrust uncovered by erosion? Nah, a pile of tarpaper and shingles someone had dumped. Because, you know, the desert is just a useless wasteland, right? Well, at least this pile sort of blended in, unlike beer cans, old appliances, mattresses, burned and/or shot up vehicles, or smashed RVs with strips of insulation and tin siding flapping in the breeze.

I’ll finish the weekend here while I’m deciding where to go to next.

A popular National Park on a weekend? Am I crazy?

Cruising along Highway 111, with the Salton Sea on my right, I realized the weekend was starting. And the weather was nice. So Joshua Tree would be crowded. That was okay, because I tend toward the less used areas of the park.

My prediction of crowdedness was reinforced as I looked for a camping spot on the BLM land by the south entrance to Joshua Tree. I just had to go a little farther down a lumpy dirt trail, and the campsite wasn’t as level as I would’ve liked, but it was fine. And free. And quiet.

It got down to the 40s during the night, with considerable (and inconsiderate) wind. The park is about 1,500 feet higher, therefore chillier. I was in no rush to head in. Sleep in a little, make some breakfast, go online for a while, let the sun do its warming thing… Okay, time to go.

Traffic was light, although there were plenty of cars parked at various trailheads and pullouts. And the campgrounds were full (but they usually are, even during the week).

Live Oak Picnic Area doesn’t get a lot of use—because, yawn, it’s just a picnic area, right? But it’s right next to a large rock formation. Sort of a mini mountain. A loop around the formation is approximately three-quarters of a mile, longer if you investigate various nooks and crannies and alternate footpaths. If you’re in the mood for more you can include the very popular Jumbo Rocks and Skull Rock area next door, or cross the road for the Split Rock Trail. I spent about three hours at Live Oak and saw only a handful of other people, most of which were just picnicking.

It was a different matter when I left via the road to Twentynine Palms. Inbound vehicles were backed way up at the entrance station. But it was clear sailing (or rolling) for those of us exiting. My mellow was not harshed.

A bit of bad fortune followed by a bit of good fortune

I woke up with the urge to go somewhere. And to get a shower. And maybe pick up some supplies. So I headed north on Ogilby Road with the intent to go to Blythe and Ehrenburg. But when I got to the junction of Highway 78 I remembered Brawley was closer. And has showers at the Flying J. And, like Blythe, has a Dollar Tree and Grocery Outlet. And, unlike Blythe, has a Walmart. So across the desert, past the mine, over the dunes, and down into farmland.

The shower was excellent. I also gave myself a haircut. (More like a hair removal.) I scored a few things at Dollar Tree, then Grocery Outlet. 

The Grocery Outlet cashier asked how my day was going. “So far, so good. How about you?”

“Can’t complain.”

“I bet you could if you tried.”

He chuckled.

My “so far, so good” was about to become less good. As I approached the Rolling Steel Tent I noticed the rear tire looked rather low. Or had I parked in a divot? Nah, it was low by about a third. A puncture, no doubt. Aw crap.

I didn’t want to wrestle with the spare and the jack. I didn’t even want to mess with my compact air compressor. I asked the all-knowing Google brain if there was a Discount Tire in the vicinity.  Yes, eleven miles away in El Centro.

The question was how fast was the tire leaking. That would depend on when I ran over a nail. Was it this low after forty miles or after one? If it was a slow leak I would probably have no trouble driving another eleven miles without destroying the tire.

I made it. 

I chose Discount Tire because it’s where I bought these tires. I have a road hazard warranty, and I’m in their nationwide database. 

It was only about ten minutes before they had the Rolling Steel Tent in the work bay. After another few minutes the technician came into the waiting room, confirmed it was a nail, and said it could be patched because the hole was in the tread, not the sidewall. Good. They were all done a little later. Jacking up the van, removing the tire and wheel, unmounting the tire from the wheel, cleaning the inside of the tire, patching the hole (on the inside rather than using a plug), installing a new the valve stem, remounting the tire to the wheel, balancing it, and reinstalling the tire and wheel. No charge because of the warranty. Yay!

This is the repaired tire. You can see where the sidewall had rubbed the pavement.

Then I needed to make a decision: drive back to where I had been camped, or go somewhere else? I chose the latter. That’s why I’m writing this in Slab City. Or its less crowded, less troublesome outskirts. I think I’ll stay only a night before continuing on. Joshua Tree, Mojave Preserve, Death Valley…? We’ll see.

Forgotten aroma

I’m cooking up some rice. Just plain old basmati rice by itself, not one of the rice-based side dishes from an envelope. It has been years (a decade?) since I’ve done this. The last time would’ve been when I was still living in a house and had a rice cooker.

So I had forgotten what boiling rice smells like. I was expecting nothing, because rice is just, oh, filler for something else. Rather neutral. At least that’s how I’ve seen it. But, mmmmmmmm, it’s mellow and pleasing and homey. It brings back good memories. And we can never have enough of those.

The Great Burrito Search: Candidate 2, with a little something on the side

Today’s quest took me to Taco Salsa, in the strip mall a few doors down from my former favorite place, Diegos. From the outside it looked a little upscale, like it had cloth napkins and servers and such, but once inside it had all the markers of a simple, down-home Mexican food joint, only with a large seating area. A half dozen abuelas were at work in the kitchen. Always a good sign.

One reason I chose Taco Salsa was I saw on their online menu they offered al pastor. That’s not common. For those unfamiliar with al pastor, it’s slabs of marinated and seasoned pork stacked on a rotating vertical spit, like gyro. Al pastor can vary a lot, depending on the seasonings. I didn’t see the roasting machine in the kitchen, but there are versions that don’t use it, also with varying results. I wanted to try their al pastor, so I ordered a taco to go along with the chicken burrito. It was tasty but a little chewy.

Al pastor, cilantro, green onion, shredded cabbage

The chicken burrito was about the size of the Mr. Burros one I had two weeks ago. I was hoping for pollo asado, which is grilled. This one was sort of stewed and wouldn’t have the smoky charred flavor I love. It was pretty good, nonetheless. Just not something I would make a point of coming back for. The red salsa is good. It had better be, given the restaurant’s name.

Shredded chicken, bell pepper, onion, cooked in some kind of sauce

I rate Taco Salsa a B. Open 9AM to 7PM Monday-Saturday, 10AM to 7PM Sunday.

We’re havin' a heat wave, a tropical heat wave

Well, not really a heat wave, but it’s pretty darn warm for the middle of winter. I mean, last night I accidentally slept with the driver window open and didn’t notice. I had been quite comfortable. I could tolerate more of this, please.

My condolences to you who are in genuinely cold places, unless you’re the type of freak who loves winter. Even when I was a skier I kept wishing it was a warm weather sport. And the two winters I spent in central Canada scarred me for life.

Wounded again

Sometimes keeping the desert clean means taking one for the team, whether I intended to or not.

I saw a beer/soda can under a creosote bush on the edge of my camp. Ugh, some people. So I went to fetch it. Even though I know everything in the desert is trying to kill or at least hurt us, I reached into the bush bare handed and bare armed. After all, creosote (a.k.a. greasewood, chaparral, Larrea tridentata) is one of the less vicious plants around here. I felt the twigs poke at me. Not pleasant, but I got the can, shook out the sand, crushed it and tossed it in my trash.

It was a minute or two before I noticed my arm was bleeding in three places. Oh. Two of the wounds were small pokes but one was a gash. I blotted with a paper towel and cleaned the cuts. Then I checked for blood on my clothing. There was none. Then I took this photo, because, you know, blog content.

There are worse plants to be attacked by. Creosote has medicinal properties. Here’s what googling taught me:

Creosote bush (Larrea tridentata), also known as greasewood, has been used for medicinal purposes for centuries. This plant has a long history of traditional use by indigenous peoples in North and South America for treating various ailments.

TRADITIONAL MEDICAL USES

Creosote bush has been used to treat a wide range of conditions, including:

Colds and respiratory infections

Intestinal discomfort and stomach cramps

Arthritis and rheumatism

Skin disorders and wounds

Menstrual pain

Cancer

Viral infections

Native American tribes, such as the Pima and Maricopa, have used creosote bush extracts or decoctions for treating chicken pox, tuberculosis, sexually transmitted diseases, and snake bites.

MODERN RESEARCH AND POTENTIAL BENEFITS

Recent scientific studies have investigated the pharmacological properties of creosote bush lignans, revealing potential benefits for:

Antiviral activity against HIV, HSV, and other viruses

Anticancer properties

Anti-inflammatory effects

Neuroprotective effects, potentially beneficial for Alzheimer's disease

Antioxidant properties

The plant's antimicrobial properties have led to its use in topical ointments and salves for treating cuts and burns.

Does this mean creosote can heal the wounds it creates? Or should I still use some Neosporin?

These taste great

There’s something about the taste of straight-up mangoes that’s a wee bit unpleasant to me. So it’s not high on my fruit list. Yet when I saw these at the brand new Grocery Outlet in Blythe CA I was intrigued enough to buy them.

Oh wow, delicious! The chilies add zing without relegating the fruit to mere delivery device status. Lots of mango flavor (because dehydration concentrates the tasty bits) but none of whatever it was that turned me off.

Since the stock at Grocery Outlet is constantly changing, and since it’s different from store to store, I don’t know if I’ll ever see these again. Maybe I should go back and buy the rest of what they have. Because yum!