Down at Doheny (with 100% more arty filters)

Doheny State Beach is just up the coast a few miles from San Onofre. It's a citified beach. I stopped for a few minutes on my way north because, gee, my San Onofre camping permit was valid for day use there. Paddle boarders and surfers were out even though there wasn't much going on in the wave department.

I'm visiting a friend in Los Angeles tonight, then I head to Montaña de Oro State Park near San Lius Obispo, then on to San Francisco for Labor Day weekend.

Creeping around in the dark again

Return to camp

Do they still say cowabunga?

Goal within reach?

Made in the shade

For a long time—decades—my fantasy has been to spend a good chunk of my life under a palapa on the beach, staring at the Pacific. I had assumed I would need to go to Baja for that. But, hey,  I could do it here at San Onofre.

San O is one of the few California beaches where you can park right up against the beach. It's one of the few that has palapas. It's a surfing beach, not a resort beach. It's simple and mellow.

Like many California beaches, there's a day use fee. That could get spendy, except there's an annual pass for only $195. That's an entire year for the cost of thirteen days. Sweet.

The problem is that there's no overnight camping at the beach, and the campground, at $35.00 per night, would break my budget very quickly. So the trick would be finding a cheap or free place to stay at night. San Diego and Orange counties are expensive. Rents are laughably high even for fleabag studios. Anywhere I could boondock would put me way inland, meaning a bad commute. Stealth camping, while possible in a few places, is anxiety producing. And it would be nice to have somewhere to bathe.

So the quest is on for a solution. I have some ideas. It will mean time (maybe more than a year) and legwork and getting out of my introvert comfort zone.

I like living in the desert and forests more than I expected, but I really love the beach. This is where I want to be, as much as possible.

Like trains in the night

The campground for San Onofre State Park is a long strip between the cliffs and the Amtrak line. It's a rather quiet train, not rattly like a freight train. It just rumbles through, almost like it's on tires.

I've been wanting to get a long exposure shot of the train zooming by, but I don't have a schedule handy. I was out shooting night clouds when I heard it coming and whipped the camera around into place. Gotcha!

On the other side of the tracks

San Clemente State Beach

Doot-doot-doo lookin' out my back door

San Onofre State Beach

San Onofre State Beach

Put on some decent shoes, grab the camera, sun hat and walking stick, and follow the trail down the bluffs to the stony beach at San Onofre.

Yesterday, Sunday, there were lots of surfers. Today, only an old battered board.

I saw a long dark object in one of the waves. Sea lion? Shark? Nah, just a clump of kelp.

When the waves draw back from the shore, there's a clattering of rocks being bragged back down the slope. Then the next wave pushes them ashore again.

On the trail

San Onofre bluffs

I propose a new unit of travel

The other day, when I started up the Rolling Steel Tent, In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida (the full 17:05 album version) started playing on the stereo, via my old iPod. I wasn't driving far, so I wondered whether I'd arrive before the song finished. I arrived just as the last couple of measures were playing. My destination had been one In-A-Gadda-Da-Vida (or IAGDV) away.

Not only is the IAGDV a handy unit of measure, it's a somewhat entertaining one. If you were around in 1968, you could reminisce as you drive—unless the drugs erased part of your memory. You could drum along on the steering wheel. You could sing the organ solo. And before you knew it, you'd be at your destination. Or it would be time to hit the replay button and keep driving.

True, there are longer rock & roll songs, and cases could be made for them being units of travel. But except for part of "Shine on You Crazy Diamond" (which is way too mellow to be driving to) I don't have them on my iPod. So there. Bomp bomp ba-da-da BOMP!

Mechanic's corner

The Rolling Steel Tent has a little over 170,000 miles on it and it's mechanically sound. But the past few week the performance and gas milage have dropped off. It doesn't accelerate like it used to and I have to downshift for even moderate hills. It felt like it was running out of breath.

Running out of breath...

Air...

Essential part of the combustion process...

Hmmmmm...

I knew the air filter was good because I'd had it had replaced at the last oil change. When I popped the hood and started poking around the intake system, I saw the problem.

This is part of the intake system of a 2007 Chevy Express van. Air comes in through the mail slot, to the filter inside that drum shaped thing, through the mass air flow sensor (henceforth, MAF), then down a snorkel to the throttle body (way back where it's hard to reach). The setup of other vehicles will look different, but it's the same principle: Air through the filter, into the MAF and onward to the engine.

The air filter is a cylinder, closed at one end and open at the other.  To service it, you pop off the dome on the end of the housing. Putting the filter back in can be a bit of a wrestling match. The open end squeezes over the end of the mass air flow sensor, which sticks into the end of the filter housing.

The "trained service technician" who replaced the filter last time managed to shove the MAF out of the filter housing. Because somewhere along the line, someone had removed the bolts that attach the MAF to the housing. This created a gap between the two. Air—and junk—was bypassing the filter. Not good.

Here are the air filter housing and MAF removed from the Rolling Steel Tent

Here's a view down the filter housing with the filter removed. Besides the bugs, seeds and bits of vegetable matter trapped in the MAF's screen, plain old dust and dirt had clogged the MAF's sensors.

The MAF measures the amount of incoming air so that the engine computer can tell how much gasoline the fuel injectors should supply for a proper mixture. The MAF can't do its job right when it's dirty. Symptoms of a dirty MAF include sluggish power and lower fuel milage—my symptoms.

So I blasted the inside of the MAF with MAF cleaner. Don't use carb cleaner or any other fluid. They can destroy the MAF.

With everything (except the bolts) back in place, you can see how the MAF is supposed to snug up against the housing. Until I can get the correct size bolts, the squeeze fit of the filter should hold it in place, like it had before the knucklehead got his hands on it.

So, you might want to double-check that your air filter is properly positioned. And it's a good thing to clean the MAF once in a while, like annually. After all, you'll have all that left over cleaner to use up.

Oh, and if a mechanic tells you he needs to replace your MAF instead of just cleaning it, it's because the profit on a new MAF is greater. Ask if he has actually tested the MAF.

So, another year of wandering

I vowed to myself at the start of my second year in the Rolling Steel Tent that I'd wander less and stay put more. I did, mostly thanks to hanging with Lou in Oregon for a good chunk of the summer and bad weather elsewhere. Still, the itchy feet had to be accommodated. The map below shows all the places I spent at least a night.

The sites include boondocking, paid campgrounds, hotels/motels and crashing with friends. Montana, Wyoming, Colorado and Baja California were in my original plans. Hey, there's always next year. Or the year after.

Here's the year broken into digestible chunks.

At the end of last August I was staying on BLM land near Mammoth Lakes, California, enjoying a cluster of hot springs there. My friend, Lesa, put out a distress call, so got my ass to Cottonwood, Arizona (by way of Yuma, to restock medications). After helping Lesa get her trailer roadworthy, we traveled through New Mexico, exploiting that state's annual park pass. Lesa hunkered down in Elephant Butte while I took a side trip to Marfa, Texas and southeastern New Mexico. Lou joined us in Elephant Butte and the three of us made our way across southern Arizona and on to the Quartzsite/Ehrenberg area where, in mid-October, we went our separate ways.

I spent October through January moving in a circuit between Quartzsite, Ehrenberg and Yuma, with a side trip, via Slab City, to see my friend in Los Angeles. I joined up with others for Thanksgiving, Christmas and RTR. I juggled my conflicting needs to be with people and to be alone.

February started to feel like spring, and spring means traveling to me. So I took off to Roosevelt Lake. Then I joined up with Lou and Jo in Ajo for a while. I made another run to Los Angeles at the end of February, then spent time in the Anza-Borrego Desert before reconnecting with Jo and Lou in Wickenburg, Arizona. I took another side trip to check out Bob's boondocking site north of Chino Valley, then rejoined Lou and Jo near Congress, Arizona. From there we went to Joshua Tree where we discussed future traveling plans. I was jonesing for some beach time, so I split off for Carpinteria, California. In the meantime, Jo and Lou had gone on to Lone Pine, California. I met up with them there at the end of March.

From Lone Pine, the three of us moved on to Death Valley. For several weeks, Lou had been wanting to get to Redmond, Oregon, and start work on his trailer modifications. It had been brutally cold there, but he couldn't wait any longer. Jo decided to go visit friends in New Mexico. I headed off on my own again to check out the southern tip of Nevada. Then it was back to the ocean at Newport Beach, California. I was going to lend Lou a hand, but I wasn't as motivated to plunge into the still-freezing nights in Redmond. I figured I'd make my way up the east side of the Sierras as weather allowed. I went back to Lone Pine, then on to Bishop. But up ahead was nothing but cold weather, so I retreated to the Kern River at the end of April.

I decided that if the Sierras were going to be too cold, then I'd take a coastal route north, using a combination of state parks and places I found on Airbnb. Once I got near San Jose, the cold spell had broken in Redmond, so I made the run in two days, stopping for the night at the Walmart in Redding.

By mid-June, the trailer renovation had reached a point where two sets of hands weren't necessary. Also, Jo had arrived. She could be an extra hand if needed. I was ready to travel some more, because now it was uncomfortably hot in Redmond. I had passed quickly through the northeast part of California the pervious year and wanted to spend some more time there. Also, northeastern Oregon looked interesting. And cooler. By the time I got to Joseph, Oregon, serious heat was about to set in and the only nice weather in the entire West was at the coast. So off I went, returning to Redmond after Independence Day.

Another bad heatwave hit in the middle of July, so I took a short side trip into the Cascades. By the end of July, Lou didn't need help anymore and I had finished my own projects. Time to hit the road again. I wanted to go all the way down the coast (where it was cool and relatively wildfire-free) starting in Astoria, Oregon. (Washington doesn't draw me, for some reason. I've been there before and... eh. Don't know why.)

Now, here I am at the end of Year 2, in San Diego County. I made my dash to get medications in Los Algodones and I'm about to turn north again. I have reservations at a hostel in San Francisco. After that, I don't know yet. Maybe Truckee. Maybe the Rockies for the changing of the leaves. We'll see.

Mission Beach

The forecast said mid-90s for where I'm camped, near Ramona, California. Why suffer the heat when the beach is just a short drive away? Fog clearing before noon, five-to-ten mile per hour breeze, people to watch. And plentiful free parking.

And a roller coaster.

Renée

Mission Beach, San Diego

Calling it a day

Dos Picos County Park, Ramona, California