Blistering

A rail line was built to bring machinery and materials to the Hoover Dam construction site. The tracks are gone but the rail bed and five tunnels remain. 

The western two-and-a-half miles of the Historic Railroad Hiking Trail is in Lake Mead National Recreation Area. It’s a gradual uphill grade from the trailhead. The eastern mile and a half, starting shortly after the fifth tunnel, is in Bureau of Reclamation property. (The Bureau of Reclamation runs Hoover Dam.) It descends much more steeply, including a section of paved switchbacks that end at the top level of the parking deck. From there you can take an elevator to/from the level of the dam.

The tunnels are the main draw, especially on hot days when they provide the only shade. And because tunnels are just neat. 

Some percentage of hikers turn around after the tunnels. I considered it, but then decided real hikers would go all the way to the dam. So I did, even though I had been there before.

The uphill slog back up to the tunnels wasn’t particularly hard, neither was it enjoyable. But, hey, look at me, I’m doing the annoying thing like a proper do-what-must-be-done tough guy. That which does not kill you… does not kill you.

I wasn’t dying, but the balls of my feet weren’t happy. They must have been on loan from a whiney baby-man. And my left knee had started sending the first faint signals that it was 69 years old and that the human knee is kind of a lame design. (pun intended) My usual purposeful hiking stride had deteriorated into more of a lopsided shuffle. And I had two more miles to go. Luckily the compassionate Park Service had placed benches every so often where we old farts can literally take a load off, and gaze at Lake Mead. Under the noon sun. But with a nice sweat-evaporating breeze.

I made it back to the Rolling Steel Tent where I discovered I had large blisters on the balls of both feet. Well, there’s your problem.

My last genuine hiking had been in January. Had the hide of my feet turned wimpy since then? Apparently.

This throws a monkey wrench into my hiking plans. Do any of you have rapid blister recovery tips?

UPDATE: I punctured the blisters with a sterilized needle, applied an antiseptic, and covered them with moleskin. I can walk fairly comfortably. However, my hip muscles tightened up overnight. Ergh. Aging.

Go west then turn right

Friday I drove from Mimbres to Yuma, across the width of Arizona (plus the New Mexico part). Saturday I crossed the border to Los Algodones to get some medications, then spent the rest of the day running around Yuma, doing errands and restocking supplies. Sunday I drove from Yuma to Lake Mead—almost the full height of Arizona. Four states, two countries, nearly 800 miles.

There are a couple of hikes in the area I want to do. One involves tunnels, the other might have waterfalls. There are also hikes in Valley of Fire State Park and on the way there. Then it’s up to Utah. At least, that’s the plan.

For a couple of days I had considered continuing west from Yuma, all the way to the Pacific. I miss the ocean. But I got thinking about the hassles of trying to stealth camp in San Diego, even though Scott, of Static Campervan, assured me the attitude had loosened up considerably there. Maybe it’s a result of the pandemic. But when I woke up Sunday I was certain I wanted to go north. So here I am.

Conflicted

Back on April 25th I wrote:

The past couple of weeks I’ve been jonesing to go hiking in southern Utah. Mmmmm, red rocks… ruins… slot canyons… I’ve been watching the videos and checking the trail maps. But it would not be cool to ditch Lou.

Lou came to me and said I shouldn’t feel obligated to hang around, that he appreciated me being there but that he could take care of himself. I should go have some fun.

Hmmmmmm…

Part of me resisted his offer. Part of me was already down the road. I want to be a good friend and stay. He wants to be a good friend and encouraged me to go. 

I thought on it for a few days. What’s the right thing?

He has caring neighbors, Pat and Margene. His longtime friend, Linda will be coming from Oregon. Our friends Scott and Lara will be visiting. Lou wouldn’t be alone.

Okay. I’d go wander. At least for a while.

Lou said that when I entered the hospital in Tucson for the tracheotomy prior to cancer treatment he thought he’d never see me again. When we hugged goodbye this morning I said, “I hope this isn’t the last time I see you.” I added, “If you need me, I’ll come right back, no matter how far away I am.”

I felt a rush of freedom as I drove away from Mimbres with the window open and the radio blasting. It would’ve been perfect if Willie Nelson had been singing, “On the road again. I just can’t wait to get on the road again…”

But about a hundred miles along it started feeling wrong.

So here I am again, stopped for the night, replaying the same internal arguments and self-critiques. What if I go for just a couple of weeks instead of the whole summer? Yeah, that feels better. I’ll sleep on it.

UPDATE: Lou emailed me after reading this post:

Al, please don't feel bad about what you are doing, it's ok. I know you will be around if I need you. Have some fun.

To which I replied:

You're not the boss of me. I'll feel bad if I want to. :D

Spring cleaning

Ready to scrub

It’s that time again. Maybe even past that time. I had the bed out of the Rolling Steel Tent in September of 2019. I did only cursory cleaning at the time because my main goal was lowering the bed. 

The last time I did big time cleaning was way back in December of 2016, in San Felipe. Wow, has it been that long since I was in Baja for more than a hop over the border to get eyeglasses, medications, and shrimp tacos? I guess that means pleasant memories stay fresher in the mind.

Almost convinced

Matt of Winder Towing

I’ve been watching even more videos from Matt’s Off Road Recovery. In one of them he explains how even though many experts say you shouldn’t use the ball of a tow hitch to yank out a stuck vehicle, sometimes it’s the best way. 

That’s especially true for things like cars, minivans and crossovers. Matt says anything on those rigs you can hook onto is weaker than a tow ball would be, and presents a greater chance of damage to the suspension and body panels.

Dry lake beds aren’t always dry, traction mats are sometimes useless

Now, the Rolling Steel Tent has a nice beefy truck chassis to hook onto. But if I’m ever foolish enough to bury the van floor-deep in sand or mud, it could be helpful to have an easily accessible tow point.

My bumper brackets aren’t very strong, so adding Jeep-like hooks or rings would require a lot of reinforcement. It would be simpler and cheaper to attach a receiver hitch to the chassis. I’m not a towing kind of guy, so I don’t need a ball (or trailer wiring). But an insert with just a tow ring could be the perfect thing for emergencies. Mine or someone else’s. 

So, do I spend the money for something I hope I never need? Would having the ability to help someone end up with me getting stuck too? Should I be extra cautious and, besides avoiding snow and ice, just never drive off pavement again? Maybe the first step is to stop watching off road recovery videos.

Spring storm

If April showers bring May flowers, what do April snows bring?

To everything there is a season

The past couple of weeks I’ve been jonesing to go hiking in southern Utah. Mmmmm, red rocks… ruins… slot canyons… I’ve been watching the videos and checking the trail maps. But it would not be cool to ditch Lou.

As I binge-watched southern Utah hiking videos, YouTube started recommending other videos shot in the region. That when I discovered the Matt’s Off Road Recovery channel showing various rescues performed by Winder Towing in Hurricane, Utah. The videos from as recent as two days ago week looked like this:

Snow and mud. Mud and snow. Even 4x4s slipping and sliding. Nope. Don’t want to be there right now.

The red rock canyons are extra beautiful in the fall when the cottonwoods are flaming gold. That would be a better time to go. If I can wait that long. 

Not much going on, and maybe that’s a good thing

I haven’t had anything of interest to report on the past week. No adventures, but also no dramas. 

I hang around in case Lou needs help with anything. He’s doing okay most days, he’s just easily fatigued. That’s hard for a guy who always has some sort of project he wants to work on. Yesterday he moved some rocks. What ordinarily would’ve been one wheelbarrow load took three or four trips. “I’m tired all the time,” he says, “but I can sleep only so much.” 

The time Lou needs to spend on the phone dealing with medical and insurance people is also exhausting. And frustrating. I had a much easier time of it with UCLA Health. All the departments were well coordinated, their record keeping and scheduling were painless. They have their shit together. (I think that’s the official medical term.) But it’s a bit of a mess here for Lou. And his oncologist left. It’s all part of Silver City being a small town with limited medical resources—especially compared to Los Angeles. 

If you’d like to help defray Lou’s expenses, his PayPal account is lbrochetti@gmail.com. Or drop him a note of support.

Part is parts

I’ve been getting a little antsy at Lou’s place, so I took a field trip to Texas. Barely. Anthony TX is smack on the state line, between El Paso and Las Cruces. 

There’s an automotive salvage yard there that, according to its online listings, has four Chevrolet Express vans and one GMC Savana. Hmmm, I wondered if they had a replacement for the handle on the side door. Or a passenger side visor. Or a headliner that was in better shape than mine. Or a steering wheel with less sun rot.

Nope. Nope. Nope. Nope. The vans had been picked clean. What was left was damaged. 

And I learned you can tell almost immediately whether the vans had V8 or V6 engines. Only the V6s were still in place. Hot rodders love L-series V8s.

There was a restricted access area filled with fairly complete looking vehicles, including a Savana. I suspect these cars were waiting for the salvage company to snatch all the best parts. Like door handles, visors, headliners, steering wheels and V8s. Oh well.

The bed drug

 I usually climb out of bed when the sun climbs over the horizon. Or, at least, that’s what I usually tell myself I’m going to do. Well, no, it’s what I rarely do. Because that early morning period is when I experience some of my most delicious sleep.

It’s one thing to sleep so deeply I’m unconscious, so deeply I cease to be aware I even exist. That’s great sleep. But I really love being just over the edge of sleep, awake just enough to know I’m in a comfortable bed, at just the right temperature, with no reason I need to get up, and then sinking down… down…… down………… into some weird dream……….. then drifting slowly up to semiconsciousness so I can be grateful I can stay in bed and sink down… down…… down………… 

Yes, I know, I’ve written about this before. That’s how much I love morning sleep.

Another way to do it

Greetings from the family

It happens many times. Someone announces their plans to drive away from normal life and live in a vehicle—on purpose—and their families throw a fit. Usually out of concern for the nomad’s wellbeing, but often because they find the action somehow… offensive, a threat to the proper order of things, a rejection of all they hold dear. The announcement can create a familial rift, or widen one that’s already there.

I’m lucky. My family has been supportive. If there are any who feel otherwise they’ve kept it to themselves. We’re a polite clan. 

I’m the youngest sibling, the baby, and my path has always been at least a little different. So they’ve had decades to adjust to my oddness. “You sold your house so you can wander around in a van? (inert one-point-three seconds of thought) Yeah, that fits your profile.”

So, this post was inspired by the birthday greetings two of my sisters sent me. Linda wrote:

I hope all you roads are clear, your skies are wide, and you have all you need for the year ahead to enjoy good health, peace of mind, and many new adventures!

And Karen posted:

I saw this on my trike ride and thought of you.  Wishing you many more years of “life is good!”

Thank you, dear sisters.

The latest dirt

Lou rapped on the Rolling Steel Tent’s partially opened door. “I need help carrying a tub of dirt.”

“Okay.”

Earlier he had acquired some strawberries and chives at the nursery in town. He was ready to put his greenhouse back in operation.

As we walked to the patio I thought about a broader, more universal meaning of, “I need help carrying a tub of dirt.”

We all have burdens. And sometimes those burdens don’t seem to amount to anything more than a pile of dirt—particularly to outside observers. But it’s our dirt, we need to carry it, and sometimes it’s more than we can handle alone.

There were actually two tubs of dirt. We carried the smaller one to the greenhouse first. Gotta warm up one’s muscles before tackling the bigger job. The second tub was, oof, much heavier.

“This was collected from my composting toilet.”

We were literally dealing with his shit. 

But it was shit that would be put to a good purpose. It’s shit that will enable growth. And strawberries.

"And you could have it all / My empire of dirt" — Trent Reznor

Got that taken care of

Homage to a chair

It’s common while I’m in the van for Lou to sit outside in my chair. Sometimes he’ll just sit in it to take in the sun and scenery. And he likes to sit in it when he plays guitar.

“This is the most comfortable chair,” he proclaimed the other day. I agree.

Most nomads have some type of fabric-and-aluminum folding chair. My molded-plastic-and-steel chair is the oddball around the campfire. It’s as out of place as wingtips. 

But it’s comfortable. Its shape is anatomically correct. The perforated seat and back act like springs. 

“The front edge of your chair doesn’t dig into the back of my thighs like mine does,” Lou explained. I briefly had a camp chair that did that, plus the top of the backrest dug into my spine. What’s more, my chair doesn’t make me feel like I’m sitting in a hole.

My chair is also rugged. No fabric to be destroyed by sun rot, no seams to come unstitched. If the pivot points ever wear out, I can replace them with bolts. 

It’s heavier than nearly every other camp chair, but the weight and perforations mean it won’t blow away in desert winds. It did tip over once, but it didn’t end up a quarter mile away. Impaled on a cactus. With a bent strut.

So hurray for my chair! Long live my chair!