Memory Lane

Jay Allen is a big deal in the world of motorcycle-related media and entertainment. He's also from Bisbee, Arizona. I would be passing through Bisbee, so I made a point of stopping by Erie Street in the Lowell neighborhood. Jay Allen bought most (if not all) of the street and turned the early-20th-century commercial buildings into his offices and workshops, storage for his collection of bikes and cars, and a sort of gearhead retro wonderland.

It's rather cool and all, but there was one vehicle I especially wanted to see because I had no idea such a thing existed until I saw it on Google Street View (see screen grab below). A Hudson pickup truck!?!?

Alas, it had been moved, replaced by something less unique. Oh well. I got some grub at the Bisbee Breakfast Club and hit the road west.

Pet sharing

Scout paid a visit

Irma

Three years ago, Irma opened a restaurant in Columbus, New Mexico. "This isn't like a big city where you have customers all day long, but I'm doing okay."

She asked where I was from and I gave her a quick rundown of my nomadic existence. Nodding toward the Rolling Steel Tent she said, "Yeah, that's all you really need. I have two houses—one here and one over in Mexico. I don't know why. I only use the bedroom and bathroom, and this place is my kitchen."

Back in that kitchen, she whipped me up some eggs over medium, thick bacon, and potatoes with onions. Excellent. I guess that's why she's doing okay.

Wasting a day

There's a narrow window of calm air in the morning, but it was closing by the time I got my act together and on the road. It was howling out of the south at 25 to 40 miles per hour as I drove west on I-10. Not fun.

I called it quits in Deming. A whole 60 miles for the day. So much for my plan to head south to Columbus, near the border, then west on Highway 9 through Hachita and Animas on my way to Douglas, Arizona. If I was going to be blown around, I'd rather do it while parked. And asphalt makes less dust. Hurray for Wallydocking.

I wanted to get a better look at the "boot heel" of New Mexico because I've been working on a short story I've set there. Out of the way, little known, hostile to human survival... Perfect for what I had in mind. I pledge to get an early start.

Take a hike

My campsite was just down the road from the Dripping Springs Natural Area. There are several trails there. I took the one to the spring and the ruins of a resort built in the 1870's. The waterfall at the spring is only a trickle this time of year, but here's someone else's photo of it.

The ruins are cool, particularly with the mountains rising straight up behind them. From some angles they seem like they're in some far off land, or like an American Machu Picchu.

When I checked in at the visitor center, the BLM ranger said, "The trail is a little over a mile and rises about 500 feet. But it's a gradual climb." Okay.

However, I've spent the past four months at much lower elevations, including sea level. Four days at 4,500 to 5,000 feet isn't enough for me to acclimate to thinner air. So the gradual climb had me wheezing like a leaky accordion. But I kept on chugging along, breathing as deeply as I could, smiling and nodding at passing hikers as if I'd just arrived from Leadville, Colorado, and this elevation was nothing in comparison.

Aglow

The west side of the Organ Mountains light up at sunset

Year 4, so far

Here I am, half way through my fourth year of van dwelling. Even though I spent a month in Pahrump, Nevada, and two months in the Quartzsite-Yuma-San Felipe corridor, I still got around.

The largest chunk of wandering was this month, on my trek to the Texas Coast and back (the places inside the red dotted rectangle). There would've been some markers in Big Bend National Park if I hadn't been burned out.

It's time to stay put again, probably in Why, Arizona, with Lou. But I'll be keeping my eye on the Pacific Coast forecasts. The rain has to stop eventually. The beach weather will return, then so will I.

Back to "normal"

So long Aguirre Spring

Rest + time = recovery from my flu-like symptoms. I feel fine now. This morning I moved camp from Aguirre Spring Campground on the east side of the Organ Mountains overlooking White Sands, to Dripping Springs BLM area on the west side of the Organ Mountains, overlooking Las Cruces.

Hello Dripping Springs

The elevation is slightly lower here, so there are fewer trees and more grassland. It's also straight up boondocking rather than a campground. That means it's free.

If I were feeling 100% I'd do some hiking. I'll stay a couple of days and see what happens. New Mexico is the Land of Enchantment, so maybe there will be some magic.

Don't let me die in Texas. Drag me to New Mexico.

At first I thought it was just driving fatigue exacerbated by fighting the wind. Headache, eye strain, body stiffness... Then when I stopped for gas and walked around a little I realized it was more than just too much time behind the wheel. I was coming down with something.

I have flu-ish symptoms now and then. It could be every couple of years or maybe twice a year, whether I get a flu shot or not. It's usually mild. This was going to be worse than that. My digestive tract was starting to warn me that substances were thinking about leaving my body, and it couldn't guarantee which orifice(s) it would choose.

It didn't help that I'd had my fill of Texas and that traffic was a mess in El Paso. (Yay, they're hauling two prefab buildings down the center lane.) But I'd feel better—at least mentally—if I could make it across the state line. I like New Mexico. I feel more attuned to it, more at home. Home is a better place to be when you're sick. And, as I've written before, one of my favorite places in New Mexico is Aguirre Spring Campground. I could make it there.

I did. I chose a site and even though it was only late afternoon I dosed up on aspirin (for the aches and pains) and Benedryl (to knock me out) and crawled under the covers. I woke up seven hours later, feeling a little better. I self-medicated again and was down until after sunrise. I feel normal enough to create the art above and to write this blog post.

My, that's refreshing

For those who don't know, a vault toilet is a glorified outhouse. It has a toilet seat over an underground chamber (no plumbing between your bottom and the vault) and a chimney to vent the odors.

Sometimes, though, the wind will blow down the chimney and up at your butt. When the wind is warm, it can be like those expensive, high tech Japanese toilets with dryers built in. But when the wind is cold, it'll wake you right up and make some things pucker.

My sleeping brain at play

I dreamed I was in England, helping out in Roger Daltrey's workshop where he builds strange motorcycles, scooters and engine-powered chariots. (If he doesn't actually do that when he's not performing, he should.) Somehow, I sliced my thumb—to the bone—in the spot shown in this photo.

It didn't hurt or bleed. It just tingled and weeped a bit of clear fluid. "Oh," I said, examining the cut carefully, "this is worse that I thought. I should probably get medical attention."

Roger and his assistants looked at the cut and winced. "Oooo, yeah, that's bad. We'll run you to the hospital." I kept my thumb bent to keep the cut closed.

After a V8-powered chariot ride to the hospital, a very nice lady doctor also winced. "Oooo, yeah, that's bad. We might need to do a thumb transplant. Your American insurance would cover that, right?"

"Well, you see," I replied, still holding my thumb bent to keep the cut closed, hoping it would heal itself like any other cut, "I've been living off the grid, with no insurance."

"That's a problem, because this could cost about two million dollars."

"Oh, wait, I have Medicare now."

Then I woke up.

For a few seconds my dreaming brain argued with my not-fully-conscious brain over whether my thumb was actually cut. My thumb was cramped because I'd been holding it bent in real life.

Once I determined everything was normal okay, I thought about the dream and what it would mean if something like that happened in real life. I know I exist out on the fringes, alone much of the time, walking a tightrope without much of a safety net. A major injury could be a serious problem. I'm kind of cavalier about it because what satisfactory and attainable alternatives do I have?

I went back to sleep and had another dream. Several of my real-life nomad friends and I had arrived at a new boondocking location. We each drove around looking for ideal spots. I followed a trail that snaked between trees, through pot holes and over boulders. I got to the type of terrain rock crawlers like. There was a narrow gap that led to a really nice spot.

"I can squeeze the Rolling Steel Tent through there," I told myself. "No problem."

Part way through, the trail dropped several feet and the van got high centered. And tipped to the side. And got wedged between the boulders. There was no way I would be driving out. They wouldn't be able to pull or winch me out either. It would take a crane to lift me—if a crane could even get close enough. I was screwed.

Then I woke up.

Clearly, my dream brain had a general theme going last night.

Okay, what would I do if the Rolling Steel Tent wrecked? Well, insurance would help cover the cost of replacement. And I could salvage a lot of stuff, or at least the basics. Maybe. Where would I live until I got a replacement? Who could I count on for help?

Before Lou and I headed in different directions earlier this month, he said, "If anything happens, call me. I'll come, no matter where you are." He's an excellent friend. I wonder if he knows anyone with a crane. Or a spare thumb.

Sometimes van dwelling is so glamorous

Fatigue was washing over me and I wanted shelter from the 25-40 MPH winds blowing me all over the highway. FreeCampsites.net had a suggestion:

A large gravel parking area behind McDonald's. This is used by truckers for overnight parking, plenty of room, fairly quiet considering the number of trucks

There happened to be a small building I could back up to and get out of the wind. Sweet. And if I don't want to eat any of my food, I can stroll over for a Big Mac.

It's not wintery here

It's time to break out the fan to assist the natural breeze through the Rolling Steel Tent. When I was a kid, they taught me perspiring keeps us cool as the sweat evaporates. I thought they were lying, because I lived in a region with high humidity, and nothing evaporates there. But this is the West, where even stone evaporates. So the fan helps the process quite nicely.

The lawless west of the Pecos

I doubt Judge Roy Bean used Helvetica for his sign

If you're driving US90 through Texas border country, there are three reasons to stop in Langtry. The first is to use a restroom. The second is to see the Judge Roy Bean Visitor Center and desert botanical garden. And the third is to camp in the large gravelly, grassy, shadeless parking lot of the community center. Not that you'd want to camp there, it's just that if you need a place for the night, that's where you go if you don't want to use an RV park. There's a suggested $2.00 donation. It was a bit of a fight getting my money into the box. It was stuffed full. It was like no one had emptied it in years. Or decades.

I had checked out Langtry via Google Earth and saw dirt roads/ruts looping out to the bluffs overlooking the Rio Grande. I had hoped to camp out there but the lady at the visitor center said it was private property. Oh well.

The visitor center has a few displays and several dioramas about Roy Bean and Langtry. Bean's quasi-authentic bar/pool room/courtroom is out back, with not much to see inside. If you come hoping for Old West reenactments with a Paul Newman look-alike playing Judge Roy Bean, nope. It's mostly a photo op. See, I was there.

Langtry is one of those middle-of-nowhere places that makes you wonder why it's there. I mean, hell, it doesn't even have cell service. Okay, the railroad went through and established a construction camp. Roy Bean showed up shortly after to set up a saloon (workers need their whisky, after all). Others came along and decided it was as good a place as any (because, I suppose, they hadn't seen many places) (or because they got drunk at Bean's joint and didn't realize they'd never left). Union Pacific eventually moved the rail line and its facilities, but some people stayed on, because they had sunk costs they didn't want to throw away, or because, again, they'd forgotten they were just passing through. Then the highway came along and those who'd stayed figured it would bring business and visitors. Eh, not so much anymore. Except for old farts like me wandering the West, needing a place to pee, get a little history and sleep.

Bridge to bridge

I spent a night at the Governor's Landing Campground in the Amistad National Recreation Area. My site overlooked these bridges (one for US 90, the other for the railroad) across Amistad Reservoir, which is a dammed section of the Rio Grande. (Perhaps damned, as well.)

I spent the next night at the Pecos River, in a scenic overlook/picnic area. Texas lets people stay 24 hours in any of their rest areas or picnic areas, though there aren't many you'd choose to, since most are barely off the highway. This was a good one, though. Fine view, tolerable traffic noise. Zero cell signal, though.

The Pecos meets the Rio Grande not far from this spot. I've also camped near the headwaters of the Pecos, in the Sangre de Cristo mountains of New Mexico. So that's one end and the other, for whatever that wins me. Experiences, I guess, which are good things.