A place of my own

In his review of the Nomadland movie, Stuart Klawans of The Nation says of us nomads, “These people have no place to call their own…”

Is that true? If we’re talking about the traditional bit of real estate, yeah, okay. But that reveals society’s rather limited, unimaginative concept of life and home.

I don’t remember ever feeling truly at home in the conventional world. I felt like I was playing a role, acting out someone else’s life. So there I was, in my nice suburban house, assimilated into a community, living the Dream, but unhappy and wanting to be somewhere else, needing to be someone else.

When they say “home is where the heart is” they usually mean it’s where the people you love and who love you are. I think it’s also where your mind and soul and happiness are. It’s where you’re your authentic self, regardless of external forces or circumstances. Home isn’t wherever you hang your hat. Home is within the person who wears the hat. Home is internal.

The world’s 6,317th most stylish fire extinguisher

May I never need to use it

Almost blue moon

We’re going to have a blue moon. What once-in-a-blue-moon thing are you going to do, or hope happens?

In case you aren’t up on the rules

Boondocking at Ironwood Forest National Monument

New routine?

I’ve sort of settled into one of my winter habitats. It’s a little sooner than usual because a cold front has driven me out of some places I wanted to explore. But that might not be a bad thing. Without a list of sights and hikes beckoning me down the road, I have big chunks of time (three, four months?) to tackle some other things I’ve been wanting to do. 

For example, I want to decorate my insulated fridge box. I bought paint and brushes when I was still at Lou’s place, and I applied background colors, but then I put it aside to travel. Today I spent an hour or so working on it. Because there was no rush to squeeze it in before driving off to the Next Thing. 

So far

Then I spent a few hours writing blog posts for someone else. (For money. Yay.)

And a couple of hours assembling a video I had shot weeks ago.

And another hour working on a small craft project.

And fifteen minutes doing a little exercise with a dumbbell.

And a half hour cleaning.

I got a lot done. 

The voice that usually whispers, “You could go to that place. And this place, and these other places,” was quiet. That’s new. 

Some drives seem longer

Today’s drive, from Pine, Arizona, to a boondocking spot a little north of Tucson was about 200 miles. So was Friday’s drive from the North Rim to Flagstaff. But the later one seemed much farther.

One reason is the stretch of 89A from the base of the Kiabab Plateau, along the Vermillion Cliffs, to Navajo Bridge is always a longer hop than I remember. I’ve driven it several times, yet the picture in my brain remains the same. That’s also true of the segment from Navajo Bridge to the junction with 89.  And from that junction to Gap. And Gap to the junction with 160. And from 160 to Cameron. And, well, the whole damn drive is longer than I think.

In comparison, Pine to Roosevelt Lake, to Globe, to Winkelman, to Oracle is just as I expected, even though I’ve driven it only once before.

The brain is a weird thing.

I’m here now

North of Tucson, east of Picacho Peak

The down side

I have a bit of a thing for Mitsubishi Delicas. Cool, four-wheel drive, high-ground-clearance, turbocharged minivans imported used from Japan. I see them occasionally, all tricked out for global adventuring. They’re what VW microbuses dream of being. If I were to get a minivan, the Delica would be my first choice.

Or not.

Today I witnessed the problem with driving a rare imported vehicle. Traffic on US-89 in the Navajo Nation suddenly backed up. We crawled at 35 MPH until there was a passing lane. That’s when I saw what had been holding us up. A Delica belching smoke, trying to limp to Flagstaff. My heart went out. Oh man. Good luck getting that fixed. I pictured the couple stranded, waiting for an engine to be found and shipped from Japan. Or needing to find a totally new vehicle.

Meanwhile, the Rolling Steel Tent just passed 300,000 miles. Yes, with some repairs along the way, but nothing as drastic as a new engine. And if its engine did blow, a replacement wouldn’t need to be sent on a boat. So I think I’ll stick with good old ‘Merican iron. Even if it’s not cute and exotic.

To the Rim and back

I wanted to get to the North Rim of Grand Canyon early enough to catch the sunrise. I woke at 5:00AM and tried to do the mental math of when I would need to leave camp. For some reason (not having looked it up) I thought it was about twenty miles from Jacob Lake to the Rim. It’s actually fifty. I arrived about fifteen minutes after the sun broke the horizon. Oh well. It was still beautiful.

Along the way (once there was a little light in the sky) I saw lots of deer and two groups of bison. Cool.

There were only two other vehicles in the parking lot. And with the visitor center, lodge and cabins closed up it was rather eerie. In a nice way. Like the Martians had taken all the annoying people away in the night.

I guess Bright Angel Point makes you into a bright angel

After checking out the view from Bright Angel Point and the Transept Trail, I drove out to Cape Royal and Point Imperial for a different angle on things. The road goes winds through several different environments, including, alas, burned areas. Again, I was essentially alone. however, the trailhead for North Kiabab Trail was filling up. Hardcore hikers.

I left at about noon. When I reached Jacob Lake, the parking lot for the lodge/store was filled with guys in camo. Hunters. Run, deer! Run and hide! I topped off my the Rolling Steel Tent’s tank and ran for Flagstaff.

Shorter trip than planned

As I write this I’m camped on the Kiabab Plateau, near Jacob Lake, which is the gateway to the North Rim of Grand Canyon. (With cell service!) The plan was to go to the North Rim then head up into Utah for some more hiking. Oh boy! Red rocks and slot canyons! And maybe aspens and cottonwoods turned gold.

But seriously cold weather is on its way. Subfreezing nights, and some rain that could turn to snow. I don’t like freezing nights. And even if it doesn’t snow, rain could make the unpaved roads in Grand Staircase-Escalante impassible. In addition, one should stay out of slot canyons if there’s rain in the region.

So after a quick look at the canyon from this side, it’ll be a U-turn south. Past Flagstaff, at least down to Sedona/Cottonwood/Payson level. Maybe I'll run into some fellow nomads down there.

But where are the walnuts?

Walnut Canyon National Monument, about five miles east of Flagstaff, has some cliff dwelling ruins. A gooseneck in the creek created a peninsula which, if you ignore the thin bit, looks like an island. So they call it the Island. 

There’s a trail from the visitor center, down to the ruins, around the Island, and back up. The trail is paved and easy. It’s the stairs that make one think twice. Two-hundred and forty steps down. Two-hundred and forty steps back up. A sign at the top advises visitors, “Going down is optional. Coming up is mandatory.”

I went for it.

It wasn’t as bad climbing the stairs as I feared. I rested twice. I paused a couple of times to enjoy the view.

Truckin’

I thought it would get uncomfortably cold last night. Not only did I have my down quilt, I added my other blanket, just in case. I woke up sweating in the middle of the night and set the blanket aside. In the morning I was able to go out and admire the rising sun without needing a jacket.

That was good.

What wasn’t good were the big gravel trucks that kept driving by, making noise and throwing up dust. I got into a bit of a standoff with one of them while driving in. It was a narrow section of road right after a curve. There wasn’t room to pass even though I was way over to the right with the wheels off the hard packed dirt-gravel mix and and sort of in the ditch. I waited to see what he would do and he waited to see what I would do. He had me outmuscled, so I stared backing up. (Which is something I do badly in the Rolling Steel Tent. Good thing I wasn’t pulling a trailer.) Since I couldn’t see what was happening on the right very well, I moved to the left so I could stick my head out the window and see exactly where I was going and how much road I had. It was also the side of the road with a cut instead of a drop-off. Better to back into dirt and rock than air. I finally got far enough over for the truck to get by. And then another truck. I proceeded on my way only to encounter another three trucks a little farther along. Fortunately the road was wider there.

The view from the Rim is great, but I’d had my fill of trucks, noise and dust. I decided to leave while there was a gap in the convoy.

Rim Road isn’t too bad, as National Forest roads go. A little rough, occasional bumps, and a few sections of bad washboard. Good enough. But when I got back to the highway, man, it felt like I was on a flying carpet. So smo-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-oth. Just gli-i-i-i-i-i-i-i-ding along. No rattles or shakes. Pavement is good! Especially when it’s more than wide enough for vehicles to pass each other. The irony: It took a lot of gravel trucks to pave that highway.

Higher

Yesterday at the base of the Mogollon Rim, tonight at the top. I’m prepared to freeze.

A preview of “winter”

Last night I camped near Pine, Arizona. About 5,300 feet up. Not terribly high. In fact, it’s lower than where I spent the past few months in New Mexico. But that was the end of summer, so it was warmer, of course. Now we’re well into autumn and the nights get downright chilly.

I had spent the previous two nights 3,000 feet lower and 60 miles farther south, sleeping comfortably under my light blanket. But it was down quilt time last night. And heater time this morning. 43°F/6°C. Ah, yes, that time if year.

I’ll be heading to the low desert once the daytime temperatures there cool down to a more tolerable level. The “winter” temperatures in the Sonoran Desert will be similar to last night’s here at the base of the Mogollon Rim. (Yes, I know real winter. I spent two of them in Saskatchewan. Mmmmm, -40° for weeks at a time.)

Change is good, variety is the spice of life, and all that. Hallelujah, let’s get up and sing about it.

It was supposed to be easy

Heart of Rocks Loop is in the center (heart) of Chiricahua National Monument. You can get there by hiking down from the top or up from the bottom. The latter option seemed like a good idea. A gradual ascent in exchange for an easy downhill return at the end, when I’d be more tired. Because I’m an old guy.

The hike started at the visitor center, on Lower Rhyolite Trail. Wide, smooth, almost flat. I was energetic and optimistic. Piece of cake. But then the trail got narrower and rockier. And steeper. Still no problem.

By the time I reached the junction with Sarah Deming Trail I needed a rest. That was only a mile and a half? It seemed farther. A constant uphill grade makes demands (polite requests?) upon the cardio system. My legs were saying, “Yeah, we’re doing some work, but we’re okay.”

Up... up... up...

Sarah Deming Trail continued to climb. Relentlessly. My legs were asking, “Are we about done here?” The last quarter mile is a set of steeper switchbacks, featuring stairs whose rises are about twelve to sixteen inches. (Most stairs have a rise of four to seven inches.)  I was totally burned out and wobbly-legged by the time I reached the summit and the junction with Heart of Rocks Loop. Then, surprise, my phone chirped. There was good cell reception. A small reward, in case the scenery and sense of accomplishment weren’t enough.

After some (more) water, a protein bar and checking my email, it was time for the main event. And a few more steep trail sections. It was worth it.

We humans see faces everywhere

Kissing Rocks

Downhill hiking should be a literal stroll in the park. Except the footing gets trickier. Feet can slide on loose bits, sending you into the arms of gravity. I picked foot placement carefully and avoided any falls or twisted ankles. Leg muscles that had spent the first half of the hike going tighten, tighten, tighten, tighten were now tasked with releasing tension gracefully—over and over and over—while the heart and lungs asked, “What’s the problem down there? This is the easy part.”

By the time I got back to the bottom part of Rhyolite Trail I started having wishful-thinking-induced hallucinations. I saw a large patch of white through the trees ahead and convinced myself it was the Rolling Steel Tent. Alas, it was just some sunlit cliff face. Not home yet.

Unlike other hikers returning to their mere cars, I had the Most Comfortable Bed Ever awaiting me in the Rolling Steel Tent. I collapsed for and hour and a half.

This was the most exhausting hike this former couch potato has ever done. July’s hike at Garden Creek Waterfall was intensely vertical, but only for a short distance at the beginning. This hike was like five hours on a StairMaster, but with no Spandex-clad cuties panting and sweating next to me. 

Now I have a frame of reference for a 1,600 foot elevation gain in three miles. I know what it's like, and I know can do it.