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!

Me paying to camp?!?!

I’m in a nice little campground about a half mile from my previous spot. I moved because of highway noise—especially from big trucks—and because the place was a bit… sketchy. There were a couple of piles of trash and the feeling it was a spot where locals came to do annoying things. No one ever came, but once that idea got in my head…

So down the road is a BLM campground. A few years ago it was only a spot by a farm road with a boat ramp and some picnic tables. Now it’s all official and stuff. But it’s quiet and has a respectable vibe. Just other old fart nomads and snowbirds. At least at this time.

Two things, though. 

One is that jets and helicopters from the Marine Corps Air Station in Yuma make occasional low-altitude passes along the river. About five times yesterday (and just now) the tranquility has been interrupted by brief shrieks or more prolonged whoppita-whoppita-whoppitas.

The other is the occasional rumble very much like distant rolling thunder. It’s actually the sound of vehicles driving on a wood plank bridge about a hundred yards away. Okay, no big deal now that I know what it is.

About another half mile downstream is the first place I camped in this area, with a group that formed at the 2014 Rubber Tramp Rendezvous. It, too, was just a river access area. I see it’s also a campground now, with designated sites, a pit toilet, and fees. Things change. 

I want to kill a week

I drove to Quartzsite this morning to pick up a package at my mail forwarder. Another shipment is supposed to arrive next Tuesday. The sensible thing would be to hang out in Quartzite and do the nomad/snowbird thing. But I don’t like that town much anymore, with the main problem being clogged cell bandwidth. I could go over the hill to Ehrenburg and a good cell service, but both Ehrenburg and Quartzsite are having freezing nights.

The stupid, wasteful thing would be to return my regular camping area near the border where lower elevation and latitude allow the night temperatures to stay in a more bearable range.

So, what if I split the difference? There’s camping spot about halfway between Quartzsite and my border spot. It’s on the Colorado river at about 230 feet elevation instead of nearly 1,000 feet in Quartzsite. And the forecast also splits the difference. An entire week here? Maybe. I’ll see how it goes.

From 11 years ago today: Useful Moves

Are you hitting your head here, hoping you’ll wise up?

The solitaire app on my iPhone is kind enough to inform me when a particular shuffle has no solution. 

“No useful moves detected.” 

I love that phrasing. No useful moves. “Sure,” it says, “you could keep moving cards around, hoping for a breakthrough, if that makes you happy, dear player, but don’t pretend you’re accomplishing anything.”

How many times in life, after lots of determination, hard work and expended resources, do we learn we’d been wasting our time, that nothing we could do would bring about the desired outcome? Perhaps you or I are in the middle of one or more right now but we haven’t realized it yet.

For those of us who don’t learn from our mistakes, or who believe making a different choice earlier would change the outcome, the solitaire game provides the option to replay a dead end shuffle. If at first you don’t succeed, try, try again, right? But there’s seldom any going back and starting over in the real world. 

It would be great if we all had magical Futility Detectors. A gizmo that tells us in a soothing, forgiving, avuncular voice when our moves are useless.

“Al, my friend, you can keep moving around the cards of your life, but it’s not useful. There’s no solution. What do you say you cut your losses and try something different?”

No, I’m not quitting this van dwelling life. I’m just reaching out to my audience (assuming I have one). Examine your life, your goals, the time and energy spent on it. Are you making useless moves? Is there really any possibility of a win? Is it time to change course?

American culture tells us it’s wrong to quit. Losers quit, right? (Insert everything you’ve ever heard in school, pep talks, company meetings or the gym.) But chasing futility is also losing.

For those times it’s possible to reach the goal, but at way too much cost, it would also be great to have a personal Point of Diminishing Returns detector. To help us decide what to do at each point of diminishing returns, we should also have a Success Simulator. Again, the wise, soothing voice:

“Al, here’s what it would be like when you grab the prize. And here’s what it would be like after the rush of accomplishment fades. Will it be worth what you’re going to have to do to get there? Are you sure?”

Sometimes I don’t understand the weather

Temperatures have been in the mid 60s to the low 70s, with the nights in the mid 40s. And the harder the wind blows the cooler it gets.

But the past couple of days the wind has been from the south, and it has been cooler. What? Wait. It’s warmer the farther south you go, right? So we should have higher temperatures. But no.

I guess what’s happening is this wind is coming off the Pacific, the Sea of Cortez, and the mountains of Baja California. The sky has been mostly overcast, reducing the amount of sunlight that would otherwise warm the air and ground and me.

I can’t complain, though. It’s not freezing. We didn’t get snowed on. It’s just surprising. And confusing.

The Great Burrito Search: Candidate 1

I was back in town and in the mood for a burrito. So I asked Google Maps for the closest ones near me. At the top of the list, with rave reviews, was Mr. Burros. Okay, let’s go.

Mr. Burros is a funky no-frills place with a few tables, a small patio, and very little parking. The patrons were 90% blue collar Latinos, which is always an endorsement.

I was disappointed to learn they didn’t have pollo asado. I went with the carne asada instead. My order was ready in a couple of minutes and I took it out to the Rolling Steel Tent to eat.

This burrito was a little shorter than the monsters Diego’s served, but it was also a buck cheaper. There was a bit of lettuce inside which had wilted from the heat and moisture of the meat. There was also pico de gallo. The carne was diced into small cubes with a bit of sear. Very tasty. A drawback was that the cubes tumbled out whenever I set the burrito down. The salsa verde was just right even though it came from plastic packets instead of a pot in the kitchen. Oh well.

When I was waiting I saw their breakfast burrito menu featured their version of a California burrito—the Calizona. Carne asada, fries, cheese, sour cream, pico de gallo and guacamole. I’ll have to try that. And their carne asada fries.

Over all, I rate Mr. Burros a B+. Open 5AM to 2:30PM Monday-Saturday, 7AM to 2PM Sunday.

The Great Burrito Search resumes

One would think finding an exceptional burrito in the Southwest—particularly within visual distance of the border—would be very easy. Of course, everyone has their own idea what constitutes a great burrito.  And standards differ as to a fair price for that burrito. But I had found a burrito that made me very happy at Diego’s Mexican Food in Yuma: a pollo asado burrito, about a foot long and four inches in diameter, no rice or beans, just chicken and pico de gallo, with salsa verde. Delicious and big enough for two meals. Ten bucks.

I was doing errands in Yuma today and discovered, alas, Diego’s is gone. Very gone. The signs and awnings have been removed and the red trim has been painted over.

The last posting on their Facebook page is from November, saying they’d be open Thanksgiving Day. A comment on that post asked if they’ve shut down. No response.

So what happened? Not enough business? Too much competition? Did the owners retire? Have they moved the business elsewhere? Did the landlord not renew the lease? I should have checked to see whether there was a message on the door or on the drive-through window.

Oh well. I guess I’ll be trying new places for a while. Maybe I’ll find a burrito I like even more. One with guacamole included, perhaps?

Injury update

It has been a couple of weeks since I gouged my forehead on the corner of my cabinet door, accidentally scrubbed off part of the scab, then wised up and covered it with a bandaid. It has healed up quite nicely.

Then, because I had wised up, I finally defanged the cabinet door with a blob of epoxy putty. I’m certain I’ll bump into it again several more times but at least it’ll do less damage. Now I need to trim that wild hair in my eyebrow.

Just a spoonful

It was a little past noon when I realized I hadn’t eaten all morning. Because I hadn’t been hungry. And I wasn’t in the mood to cook. But now I could use a little something. 

I stared into my cupboard hoping I’d see something quick, easy, and appealing. Soup… canned chicken… tuna… dehydrated potatoes… ramen… refried beans… pancake mix… seasonings… salsa… olive oil… peanut butter… bread… Hmmm, peanut butter. I could make a sandwich. But I wasn’t in the mood for bread. So how about just peanut butter? Sure, I’ve done it before. It turned out to be the perfect thing.

Blinka-blinka-blinka

It’s human nature to notice coincidences. Sometimes we bestow special meaning on the coincidences.

Well, for some reason, the past couple of weeks I’ve thought about the Rolling Steel Tent’s turn signal bulbs. Hmmmm, how long has it been since I last replaced a bulb? How long before I’ll need to do that?

Then yesterday afternoon, while running errands in Yuma, I noticed the dashboard light for my right turn signal was blinking very rapidly, which indicates a bad bulb. Well, there’s that question answered.

But was it the front or rear signal? I hoped it was the front one because it’s easy to change. Simply push a tab on the light assembly, popping it out of the grill. Then just give the socket a quarter turn to remove it and reveal the bulb. The rear lights require unbolting a trim panel and the taillight assembly. Would I be able to find the correct wrench socket, or will it have disappeared, as 10mm sockets tend to do?

So I parked the van and flipped on the turn signal. A tour around the van revealed the front signal was the problem. Okay, easy. However I had forgotten there were two different sized bulbs: one for the turn signal and one for the running lights. I also didn’t remember which was which. I had only one size bulb.

Okay, so which bulb has the broken filament? Um, neither of them. Huh? Well, all I could do at that point is replace the bulb that was the same size as the spare I had. When I removed that bulb I saw what must have been the problem. The connector end of the bulb was blackened. Something had gotten too hot, melting an internal wire. I hadn’t seen this phenomenon before.

I popped in the new bulb and, presto, everything worked properly. I suppose the wise thing would be to replace all the bulbs now. Or to at least make sure I have enough spares of the right size. And a few 10mm sockets.

Ouch

The fold-down cabinet door that serves as my table has a corner very much like a woodcarving chisel. I’ve had a few very minor collisions with it over the years, but I hit it real hard the other day, gouging off a strip of epidermis. I bled for a while, using up a couple of tissues before it eventually clotted. As I learned in Boy Scouts, apply pressure to the wound. Then this morning I accidentally scrubbed off part of the scab. A little more bleeding, a little more pressure with a tissue.

I keep telling myself to do something about that corner. It’s a threat whenever I try to retrieve something from under the bed. Most times I think to put my hand over the corner. Sometimes I forget.

I think I might still have some epoxy putty I could shape a nubbin with. It’s probably stored under the bed. I’ll need to be careful when I check. But I could be stupid.

Human to human

As I was walking into a grocery store a disheveled man pushing a shopping cart filled with his possessions said something to me I didn’t understand—probably because I was expecting he would ask for money. And because my hearing sucks.

I asked, “What?”

He repeated, “You’re nicely color coordinated.”

I was wearing what some might call an outfit rather than a random selection of clothing. My shirt and pants were both the same raw sienna color. And my shoes were a similar yellow-brown. These clothes were bought at separate times but, oh, hey, look how they work together.

The man’s comment surprised me. “Um yeah, it’s sort of a uniform, I guess.”

We shared a chuckle and he went on his way. No panhandling, simply a kind human exchange.

It made me think about how we tend to dehumanize street people, how we think they’re not like us at all. “Oh, they’re all just ___________________.” But we’re not all that different. Sure, some have addictions or mental problems. Some are lazy. Some are scammers or thieves. But so are some of the people with homes. We’re just differentiated by money. Some of the “respectable” people, the “good” people, are as penniless as the beggars, or about to be. And when we’re going through rough times we hope others will see our struggle, see us as a fellow human, and maybe help a little.

By the time all this made its way through my brain and into my heart, the friendly ragged man was gone. I hope I remember these things the next time I cross paths with someone in need—even if they don’t compliment my wardrobe.