Misnomer

These photos are from my visit to Sequoia Park in Eureka, California the other day. However, there are no sequoia trees there. Plenty of redwoods but no sequoias. 

Although the two trees are of the same subfamily, they exist in different environments. Sequoias are found at elevations above 3,000 feet, like in Sequoia National Park in the Sierra Nevada mountains. Redwoods are found below 3,000 feet, like in the coastal regions of the Pacific Northwest.

Redwoods can grow taller than sequoias, but sequoias can grow thicker. Sequoias also have much thicker bark. In football terms (because why not) redwoods are receivers and sequoias are linemen—though I’ve never seen either tree run.

There’s a small zoo at Sequoia Park featuring animals of the region, like bears, coyotes and otters. I haven’t been to a zoo since the early 80s because seeing animals in captivity depresses me. However, they have a sky walk among the redwoods. It’s mighty tempting. I’ve been on a similar treetop walkway at Trees of Mystery (the roadside attraction north of here with colossal Paul Bunyan & Babe statues) but it wasn’t as high. It was cheaper than admission to the Zoo, though. If I were a serious content creator I would’ve sprung for the $23 non-resident old fart admission to get cool photos from up in the trees, but these shots from Trees of Mystery will give you the general idea.

Eureka standoff

I came to a 4-way stop at exactly the same time as vehicles arrived at the other three stops. Hmmm.

Ordinarily, the one on the right has the right of way. But we were each on another driver’s right.

Okay, then the one turning right has the right of way. But it seemed no one wanted to turn right.

The clock ticked.

I gestured to the driver on my right. They didn’t move.

Tick tick tick…

No one moved. We were all being good drivers. We were all being polite.

Tick tick tick…

Someone needed to take the initiative. So I did. (Besides, I had the largest vehicle.)

When I had rolled a few feet into the intersection the driver opposite me made their move—a left turn in front of me. I hit my brakes and let them go.

Despite this, I’ve come to like 4-way stops. I can roll up to them, scan to see if anyone is coming, and if not, I can do a “California stop” and continue on. (Illegal, but it keeps traffic moving.) But in situations like today’s, it would speed things up if one of the drivers was an entitled jerk who insists on going first whether they have the right of way or not.

Into the forest again

Ooooo, that smell. Can’t you smell that smell?

Skunk odor began floating into the Rolling Steel Tent. Sigh. But it must not have been very close because it didn’t reach full wretch-inducing intensity.

Then an odd thing happened (odd to me, anyway). My perception of the odor changed. It became sort of… nice, like an earthy spice from some exotic culinary tradition that when blended with an unfamiliar food by skilled chefs creates a dish that’s definitely an acquired taste for most Americans.

I began inhaling deeply and holding my breath to better access the aroma. I was enjoying this new experience.

And skunk scent always triggers a question I’ve had for many years: how do skunks smell to skunks?

Moving on

US-101 is the main highway along the Pacific Coast, running from Los Angeles to Tumwater Washington. Some stretches are annoying, some are bland, but the part I drove yesterday, from Willits CA to Eureka CA, is one of the most sublime sections.

Broad four-lane highways winding through valleys with forested mountains on either side, narrowing down to two-lanes winding through redwood forests or becoming the main street in small villages. Add light traffic and weather that was perfect for driving with the window open, and it was bliss. Three hours passed quickly.

I’ll stay in the Eureka-Arcata-McKinleyville-Trinidad  area for at least a month before continuing on to Oregon and Washington then returning here on my way south. Van living is easy in this region and the summers are never hot. I think I’m at that stage in vanlife where, instead of wandering around looking for new experiences, I’d rather be in the places I like best. Oh crap! Am I becoming that type of old fart?

Adventures in budget food: sardines

Back when I worked in advertising, Shimano Fishing was one of our clients, and they would occasionally take us fishing. My only interaction with sardines has been when we used them as bait during a salt water fishing excursion. (I caught a smallish mackerel.)

I was at a laundromat next to a grocery this morning. Having reported on smoked kippers the day before, I decided to slip into the market and acquire some sardines.

My reaction? Meh. They were crumbly and very bland. I had imagined something more pungent, which is one reason I had avoided them. Adding hot sauce turned the sardines into mere hot sauce carriers.

These Chicken of the Sea sardines were the cheapest, so maybe the ones priced two or three times more would be two or three times tastier. I think I could live the rest of my life happily not knowing whether that was true. But if I’m ever starving and someone offers me sardines, I won’t turn them down.

Moody waters

It’s a gray day, and only about 50-something degrees, but still a good day for a walk along the California Coastal Trail near the mouth of the Noyo River in Fort Bragg.

Adventures in budget food: kippered snacks

Sardines, anchovies, and kippered herring have been on my ick list forever — even though I’ve never (to my knowledge) eaten them. Just the idea of oily, briny, little fish creeps me out. And it seemed many of the people who liked that sort of thing also creeped me out, even before I learned they liked it.

But when I was stocking up on canned foods at Grocery Outlet I saw kippered snacks. After ridding my mind of a weird guy in high school who ate them for lunch, I decided to be bold and try the things. They were cheap, so it would be no great loss. I like smoked salmon, and the kippered snacks were packed in brine rather than oil, so why not? I could spit it out or cleanse my mouth with something else.

They didn’t look very snackish or particularly appetizing when I opened the tin. Kind of gray-brown. And did I see tiny bones? Will I be jabbing my mouth? Hmmmm… But I went for it.

Oh, hey, not bad. Yeah, sort of like smoked salmon. Even better with a bit of hot sauce. So I bought some more the next time I was at Grocery Outlet. As a bonus, the empty tins are a handy place for pocket change and such.

Rush hour?

 I’m parked along one of Mendocino’s through streets. This evening, between about 6:00 and 6:30, there have been quite a few cars passing by. About five seconds apart. This wouldn’t be unusual in larger towns, but the population of Mendocino is only a little over 600, and a good portion of them are busy running shops, restaurants, and B&Bs. So where are all these cars coming from? Okay, add the tourists arriving for Memorial Day weekend, but still. Are they driving around and around the town? Weird. Or am I the weird one? (Well, yes, I am weird, but this behavior is not my type of weird.)

That’s old hat

My mind is filled with things I rarely think about even though I have frequent interaction with them. The other day I realized one of those things is how old my ball cap is. The bill and the top button are fraying. When did I get the cap? The label inside says GAP. When was the last time I was in one of those stores? Maybe 20 years ago? Or 25? If I wanted a more specific date I suppose I could try contacting someone at GAP and see if they have any data on product RN 54023. At any rate, this is definitely my oldest article of clothing.

I haven’t hung onto it for sentimental reasons. It just feels good on my head. And it does its job.

There was a period when trendy dudes would pay extra for pre-frayed caps. I can proudly say my hat earned its style the hard way.

Now that I’m on the subject, other bits of ball cap thoughts have come to mind. Specifically, how we would style the visors of our caps when I was a kid. Only weirdos would leave the visors in their standard form. Here are some of the variations. I don’t remember anyone turning up the visors. And the only catchers wore the hats backwards.

In a van, down by the river, again

Having accomplished one thing on my to-do list (getting eggs, and a few other items) I walked a few doors down to GoodLife Café & Bakery for an order of biscuits and gravy, to go. Then I ate my breakfast parked at nearby Big River, which empties into Mendocino Bay. An excellent place to wile away a day.

It’s sunny but chilly and windy. But that didn’t stop some kayakers and paddleboarders from giving it a go. For a little bit. The locals are more acclimated to this weather. Until I finish adjusting to this climate I’ll shelter in the Rolling Steel Tent. At least I won’t need to worry about extreme heat this summer.

Low pressure zone

I woke up this morning to the delightful realization that once more there was nothing I needed to do. I took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and pulled the bedding over my head. Then I did an inventory of my body. No muscles were tensed, my jaw wasn’t clenched, my head didn’t throb. Aaaaahhh… I remember feeling this way, like a contented blob of cherry gelatin. With whipped cream.

Even though I think of myself as a mellow guy, the Rolling Steel Tent’s starter motor situation, and the coordination for getting it repaired, had made me more tense and anxious than I was aware of at the time. But now that it was gone, oh… yeah… This is better. This is how it should be.

A totally empty calendar and a blank schedule have a habit of not lasting long. As I went about the day I thought of things to add to my to-do list. Empty the trash. Do the laundry. Get eggs. And a few other things to nag at the back of my mind, filling up my blank slate. But these are simple stress free chores. At least I hope they are.

A special thanks

I wanted to see if I could save myself a few bucks by replacing the starter myself. I watched videos, and it seemed simple enough. So I broke out the tools this morning and slithered under the van. Alas, my 18V cordless impact wrench wasn’t strong enough to loosen the bolts, no matter how long I let it go bbbbbbrrrrrrrrrrrpp. Time for the pros.

After some phoning back and forth this morning between the mechanic and the tow service and me, I finally got things arranged. The guy from Smith Towing got the Rolling Steel Tent started and I drove it to The Shop. (It’s a simple name for an auto repair place but it’s a little confusing and non-specific when one says, “I need to get my car to the shop.” Which shop? The Shop.)

The Shop was nice enough to squeeze me in between other jobs. And twenty minutes later I heard my van start and watched it back out of the service bay. Huzzah!

The starter has a lifetime guarantee, and The Shop’s warranty covers labor for two years. I thanked them profusely. Several times.

Now I’m back in action instead of inaction. I wonder what repairs the 18-year-old Rolling Steel Tent will require next. I’m saving up.

Step 1

It turned out there was an auto parts store an easy walk away, and they had a selection of starters in stock.

I’ve watched  videos about changing the starter on a Chevrolet Express. It's not difficult. The starter even came with instructions.  I’ll crawl under the Rolling Steel Tent tomorrow to see if it’s possible for me to do the swap without jack stands. I would still need a torque wrench to do the job properly.

If I have a mechanic do it, at least I’ve saved him the time of getting the starter and saved myself his mark-up. I’ll also save myself from getting grimy and maybe scraping a knuckle or two.

Garden party

Not the day I planned

My days are rarely tightly planned and today was no exception. Still, I didn’t want today to include what it did.

Things started fine. I dumped the trash in a public receptacle and then had a fresh everything bagel with cream cheese from the Good Life Cafe & Bakery. Then I parked at the Mendocino Headlands overlook and took a walk before doing some reading.

After a few hours I went back into town and took some photos of a Dr. Seuss-like plant and some succulents.

Then I hopped back into the Rolling Steel Tent to park in a better spot, and… Nothing. I turned the key but the starter didn’t start. I tried again. And again. Ergh.

Was my new battery too low? I got out the jumper cables, connected one end to my house electrical system and the other to the battery and… still nothing. Not even a click. Eeerrrrrrgh.

Hitting a starter can sometimes make it work. It didn’t.  

Maybe it was a blown fuse or a bad relay. Maybe a critter had nibbled a wire.

I didn’t want to mess with it anymore. So I called for a tow truck. It came from Fort Bragg and arrived 15 minutes later.

The tow truck guy was cheerful (perhaps thinking of the money he was about to make) and said, “Let me check some things first.”

He made sure the battery cables were tight. That didn’t help. He attached his jump pack. That didn’t help. He crawled under the van and arced the starter connection. The starter spun but didn’t engage. “Looks like the Bendix isn’t working.”

I had heard of the Bendix and knew it was part of the starter, but I wasn’t sure about what it did. I googled it while the guy got ready to load the van. Ah, yes, it’s what slides the starter gear out to engage the flywheel, which turns the engine. I’ll need a new starter. (Did they install a new starter with the new engine, or reuse the old one to save me some money?)

Then, out of habit and fidgeting, I turned the key once again and, vroom! Both the tow truck guy and I were surprised. Magic!

“Maybe spinning the starter moved things around so the Bendix works again.”

I replied, “Maybe, but I’m reluctant to turn the engine off. So, how much do I owe you?”

“That depends. Do you have AAA?”

“No.”

He shrugged. “Then nothing.”

“Are you sure?”

”We’re good.”

I didn’t argue. I looked up mechanics in Fort Bragg instead and made some calls. Three places I talked to couldn’t fit me in for several weeks. One shop said maybe, but they closed a 4:00 (it was a little after 3:00) and wouldn’t be open until Monday morning.

So, what would be the best thing to do?

I drove to Fort Bragg and talked to the mechanic who had said might be able to fit me in. I left the van running while I explained I was traveling and that the van was my home. He said to come first thing Monday and he’d see what he could do.

Okay, so there was that. What should I do until then? I found a nearby spot where I could streetdock the next few days. Then I took a deep breath, tried to get my head in a good place, and… turned off the engine. Then, of course, I tried turning it on again. Ah, it worked. This time. I’ll see what Monday morning brings.

Where life’s such a groove

I spent some very nice days (weeks?) in Mendocino last year. Even though it’s a bit too quaint and romantic destination-ish for my tastes, it’s still a fine place for a van dweller to hang out. There are numerous trails and ocean overlooks, a river, forests, and state parks in the area. And despite the options for supplies and services being limited, much larger Fort Bragg is just a few miles up the highway.

I had been slow traveling my way north since the end of March, often staying a little inland from the ocean and waiting for the weather to warm up a bit more. Highs in the low 50s? Eh, tolerable for me but not enjoyable. Now the forecast for Mendocino is showing highs in the mid-60s. That’s not T-shirt and shorts weather, but it’s enough to make me happy. Besides, no one wants to see my pale hairy legs.

Dream location

I found last night’s streetdocking spot on a short street with a brewery, a wine tasting room, and an art workshop. Rather swank, no? It was very quiet outside, but not so much in my head. It was a night of strange dreams about being stuck in tight places (a fate that gives me the heebie-jeebies just thinking about), and about having three girlfriends (which would be rather nice if the trio was fine with it, as they were in the dream). I don’t know if the dreams were caused by my location or the Indian food I had for dinner.

A not currently rushin’ river

I found a nice spot to spend the day next to the Russian River and a retired railroad bridge. The water is rather calm and not very deep here—at least at this time. But there’s evidence it can be totally different at other times.

See that piece of fabric hanging from a tree? It’s about 15 feet above the river. No doubt it snagged there when the river was running much higher, like during the heavy and prolonged winter rainstorms that batter this part of the Pacific Coast. This is definitely a more pleasant time to be here.

I don’t know if this was just what I needed today, but I’ll gladly take it

In Healdsburg, California

Cheese it’s the cops!

I’ve written before about my occasional anxiety over law enforcement deciding they don’t want me camping on the streets of their fair city. So far, the trouble has been only my overactive imagination.

I’ve been in a nice medium-sized city near wine country the past couple of days and nights. Things have been mellow. Tonight I’m streetdocking on a busier street. Traffic had died down for the night when suddenly, piercing the quiet, a cop car sped by a couple of feet from my parallel-parked van, lights and siren going. EEEEEEEEEEEEeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!!

He obviously wasn’t coming for me, so I’m cool. I'll go back to sleep now.

Pro-bike or anti-bike?

An ordinance in Santa Rosa, California, requires any construction project costing a half million or more must dedicate one percent of their budget toward public art at the site. So when a new Kia dealership was built, artists Ilana Spector and Mark Grieve were commissioned to create something. 

Most of the previous public art projects had been along the lines of benches and murals, but Grieve and Spector collected over 300 old bicycles (and one tricycle) to construct a 65-foot spire named Cyclisk (cycle + obelisk).

Since this is in front of a car dealership and a car wash and a commercial truck dealer, and next to a car rental place, I wonder if the message of Cyclisk is, “Scrap your dumb old bike and get a new car.”  Or is it a middle finger to the auto industry?

From farm to table — or to a flat space in the van

There’s a weekly farmers’ market in Petaluma on Tuesdays. I also learned they have a Butter & Eggs Parade and Festival (which I missed by a couple of weeks). I needed eggs, and farm-fresh local eggs are always better, so I went to see if there were eggs at the farmer’s market. There were. And they’re lovely.

There was also a guy selling sourdough bread. Ooo, yes please. As you can tell from the ingredients, it’s an earthier variety, not your regular white-bread bread. I hope it tastes as good as I imagine.

UPDATE: Both confirmed tasty.

UPDATE 2: In case you’re like me and didn’t know about triticale, it’s a hybrid of wheat and rye. As a rule, triticale combines the yield potential and grain quality of wheat with the disease and environmental tolerance of rye.