Another essential

The Toaster GLS from GSI Outdoors

I had one of these toasters. They fold flat so they take hardly any room. Mine worked well until the wire mesh on the bottom burned through. But at ten bucks, it was no tragedy.

I couldn't find an exact replacement (I wasn't looking all that hard), so I got a different type. It was awful. Bread took forever to brown. I learned to live without toast. (See deprivation in a previous post.)

Today I went to a fancy outdoor sports store, the type that caters to climbers and backpackers rather than runners, hunters, anglers and sports involving balls. I didn't have any purchases in mind. I just wanted to see if they had anything I might find useful. Bingo, there it was. I didn't know mountaineers need their toast, too.

Today's shopping adventure got me thinking. Some of the things we full time van dwellers need fall into the camping gear category. A few other items come from the world of RVs. Some from hardware, auto parts or housewares stores. Too bad there isn't a one-stop shop for it all. No, Walmart isn't it.

Speaking of essentials

I know, I just finished bragging about how little I need. But once in a while I get too caught up in simplifying and end up ridding myself of something I would later need. Like a tripod.

A few months ago I tossed the tripod I'd had for about 25 years. I had used it only once during the eighteen months I'd been van dwelling, I couldn't find a suitable place to stow it and, despite my repairs, the head had become wobbly. Into the dumpster it went.

Since then, I've wanted to take star photos, which requires a tripod. Rats. So I went shopping for a new one. One that was more compact, but not too short. I also wanted clip latches on the legs rather than needing to turn the legs to adjust their length.

I found this Slick 340 Pro-BH. It folds to about 19 inches and stands just shy of 58 inches. The legs can angle out almost flat for extra stability. And the ball-and-socket head is simpler to use than separate tilt and pan controls.

I also got a digital shutter controller that makes it easy to do the long exposures necessary to photograph stars. It can also do a timed sequence of shots. How long will my exposure need to be with this lens and camera settings? Twenty minutes? Twenty-six? Thirty-two? I can set the timer to take several different length shots while I'm comfortably in bed. Because sweet, delicious sleep is absolutely essential.

Essentials

There's a spectrum of people who live full time on the road, from backpackers and cyclists at one end of the scale, up to people like the ones I saw yesterday who were towing a 35-foot travel trailer behind a 45-foot Class A motor coach.

Since I live more toward the minimalist end of the scale, I have to resist mocking those who want to take as much of their former building dwelling accoutrement as possible with them. My sanctimonious internal Thoreau screams, "You don't need all that stuff!" What I should actually say is, "I don't need all that stuff."

What do we need? What is essential? Abraham Maslow offered his famous Hierarchy of Needs. Well, somewhere after the basic needs, in among the psychological needs, might be the desire to not feel deprived. The definition of deprivation varies from person to person. Some people can't imagine how I can stand not having a microwave oven or a recliner. I can't fathom how others happily live without Internet access. Or cold beverages. Or a plush mattress.

My internal Mies van der Rohe wishes he could make a bunch of converts to the Church of Less is More. But my internal Taoist knows each person must follow her/his own path. Sometimes on foot, sometimes in a big-ass RV towing another big-ass RV.

Dog day

As you may recall, I scratched my eyeglass lenses when I was trying to change my tire. They do not like being ground into the pavement. That’s why I was in Los Algodones, Baja California today. Again. It takes two hours—not two weeks—for them to make the lenses, which gave me some time to kill. 

It was lunchtime. I went to a restaurant around the corner. All the outside tables were taken (it’s al fresco dining weather here), so I went inside. The layout was odd. There was a hallway just inside the door that led to the restrooms, a turn down another hall past the bar, to some tables that turned out to be a sports book. But they served food, so why not.

A bank of monitors showed fútbol (of course), horse racing, harness racing and greyhounds. I had never watched greyhounds race before. Wow! I think it’s the origin of “greased lightning.” I know abuse is a problem in animal racing, but it’s amazing to watch. At least while enjoying sopes and tacos. 

I knew nothing about any of the dogs, but, to make watching even more fun, I would randomly pick a dog to cheer for. “C’mon number four!” I never picked a winner. Good thing I wasn’t betting. It made me wonder, though, how much knowing a lot about the dogs, trainers and breeders increases one's odds. Some, but how much? I thought back to the football pool at one of my jobs. One season, the eleven-year-old son of a coworker won four weeks in a row, before they banned him. His method? Whose uniforms did he like the best? So I picked dogs by their markings. It didn’t help.

Never say "Never say never"

Mmmmmm, home cookin'

Last May I blogged that I never cook in my van. Well, as you can see, now I sometimes do. But only with the door open. In case something goes wrong in a fire related way (as opposed to a culinary way) I can toss everything outside.

The open door also keeps steam—and the food odors it carries—from building up inside. What's more, I get to sit on my comfy bed, out of the sun or wind, with all my food supplies and utensils within easy reach. No running back and forth for stuff. I could get used to this.

M. C. Escher goes to the desert

Ajo, Arizona

A poem from the vault of despair

Reading some of my poetry from a decade ago, it's clear I wasn't very happy—except when I was writing poetry about how unhappy I was.

My life is different now. I don't feel stuck. I don't feel exploited. I don't feel like I'm treading water in the shark tank. Becoming a van dweller has been exactly the right thing for my mental health.

But here's a peek at my former self.

Perception

gliding along upside down

looking through rose colored goggles

into backward binoculars 

at a rear view funhouse mirror

in the dark 

with one eye closed

rabbit’s foot crucifix mutant clover

in my unhip pocket

knowing the juju will see me through

get me over the lumps and bumps

and sudden detours over the precipice

solidly grounded in erroneous assumptions

founded upon other erroneous assumptions

about things that never really happened

and never really could

I am certain

I am true

I am safely wrapped 

in fluffy layers of 

non-reflective self-deception

and a wrinkle resistant blend

of delusion and denial

all the while watching

for the deus ex machina

created ex nihilo

and ex post facto

to stretch forth its mighty hand

and save my bacon

making a happily ever after 

ending to end all endings

but in the end

there is no man 

with an inscrutable plan

behind the curtain

pushing buttons flipping levers 

pulling strings on my behalf

in the end 

the pretty myths that keep me afloat

bloat and 

drag and 

drown

Dusk of the dead

If I had to be buried (rather than other alternatives) I'd prefer someplace as wonderfully scenic and unpretentious as Darby Well Cemetery.

Drop me in a hole, cover me with rocks

Look behind you

Don't get so focused (pun intended) on what you're trying to photograph that you fail to see what's in the other direction.

Allow me to get a little more philosophical. Musician-comedian Tim Minchin said the following in a commencement address:

I advocate passionate dedication to the pursuit of short-term goals. Be micro-ambitious. Put your head down and work with pride on whatever is in front of you. You never know where you might end up. Just be aware the next worthy pursuit will probably appear in your periphery, which is why you should be careful of long-term dreams. If you focus too far in front of you, you won’t see the shiny thing out the corner of your eye.

Sometimes it's not about yet another shot of amber clouds. Sometimes it's about the amber mountains in the distance as seen through a saguaro forest. Glad I saw it.

A mud mural? Hmmmm...

Seen somewhere in the Slush Belt

Big colorful murals were quite the thing back during the van craze. Vans are blank canvases, after all, waiting to be used.

But since I'm living out in nature most of the time, a more organic mural would be appropriate. Like, say, a landscape done in mud or road spray. Featuring a pack of coyotes howling at the moon. And a tasteful Amazon warrior nude, of course.

Chet's rescue party found Sparky just in time

Spring is starting in the desert

Club activity

The Society of Old Farts In Olive Dickies with Yucca Stalk Walking Sticks goes for a hike. 

Lou in light shirt, self in black shirt. Photos by Jo Thompson.

Rethinking litter archaeology

I was being a bit of a smart ass when I wrote "litter archaeology." But then, after a five mile hike, a nap, and lunch, I thought, "You know, the artifacts archaeologists dig up are usually the trash of past civilizations. Shattered pots, broken tools, discarded household items..."

So I've reworked my opinion of the stuff scattered—or piled—around me in the desert. It's a treasure trove for future archaeologists. Especially if they're studying the history of beer.

Litter archaeology

The  BLM land along Darby Well Road isn’t all a desert paradise. It is, after all, right next to the inactive New Cornelia open pit copper mine. There are also abandoned ranch buildings and the debris that goes with them. Want a chunk of corrugated tin? A bucket without a bottom? An ice chest without a lid?

But the more disturbing thing in this environmentally aware age is the piles of rusting cans and broken bottles. Were they dumped here by the truckload? Were these spots where guys off-shift from the mine would park and drink and toss their empties? There are food cans in the mix, too. Did the ranchers use it as a trash dump? I can only guess what the story is. The cans are rusty, so they’re steel rather than aluminum. That dates most of them. 

Remember when this was the way to open a beverage can?

The first aluminum beer cans appeared in the early 1960s. For a while there were also aluminum-topped steel cans. Pop-top cans and their rings appeared shortly after. 

These used to be tossed everywhere, unless an obsessive person made them into chains

The StaTab can we have now was introduced in the mid ‘70s. So, most of these cans, and probably the shattered glass beer and whiskey bottles with them, are at least 50 years old. The fact they haven’t crumbled into powder by now is a testament to the region’s aridity.

But not all the litter here is old