Feeling abandoned

A few miles before Beatty, Nevada, I saw the sign for Rhyolite. It flipped the I've-Heard-of-That-Somewhere-Before switch in my brain. Then I saw crumbling buildings on the hillside and remembered it was a ghost town. I made the turn.

"Ghost town" usually evokes something from the 1800s, something like a movie set from a western. But Rhyolite is a boom-to-bust mining town from the early 20th century. It had electricity, plumbing and other trappings of modernity. And its important buildings were made of brick, stone and concrete. Now it looks more like a war-ravaged city than a place where a lawman and a gunslinger would face off in the street at high noon.

There's a cautionary tale in many ghost towns about plans and dreams and riches, and how quickly the luck can run out. Rhyolite's lesson was set in stone.

The long way there

I've driven from Lone Pine to Death Valley and on to Pahrump NV twice before. This was the route:

Okay, been there, done that. So this time, in the name of seeing something new, I decided to take a longer route by way of Beatty NV. Like this:

Hey, what's fourteen extra minutes, more or less, when you're on an adventure?

So I'm driving along, a little past Stovepipe Wells, when I see the sign for Beatty. And Scotty's Castle.

There were also signs saying Scotty's Castle was closed. No problem, I wasn't interested in that anyway.

There's this thing that large-brained people who study human behavior call target fixation. Wikipedia describes it thusly:

Target fixation is an attentional phenomenon observed in humans in which an individual becomes so focused on an observed object (be it a target or hazard) that they inadvertently increase their risk of colliding with the object… In such cases, the observer may fixate so intently on the target that they steer in the direction of their gaze…

There's a related phenomenon I call Old Guy Not Really Paying Attention. You see, shortly after making that left toward Beatty/Scotty's Castle, there's a sign indicating a right turn toward Beatty.

It's a small sign and not currently in as good a shape as when the Google Street View car came through. But that was only part of the situation. There's also a rest area just past the junction where a group of vehicles was stopped. I fixated on them and shot right past the turn. If someone had asked me whether I'd seen the turn, I would have answered, "What turn?"

Besides, not having looked at the map in a year or two, in my mind, one passed Scotty's Castle on the way to Beatty. So on I went, la-de-da-de-da, down a road that looked like this:

About forty miles later I arrived at a closed ranger station and the locked gate/barricade to Scotty's castle. Oh. It's not just that Scotty's Castle is closed, the road past it and onward to Nevada is closed. Ah-ha. So I got out the atlas to see where I was and where I should be. Oh, I missed the turn back there.

So I turned around and drove the forty miles back to the junction. My little detour/adventure looked like this:

No  big tragedy, just some more gasoline burned and a butt that was more tired. And now I know what that part of Death Valley looks like. And Beatty. And Amagosa Valley, home of the World's Largest Firecracker.

Off again

So  long, Mount Whitney

This morning I leave Lone Pine and head off across Death Valley to meet up with friends in Nevada.

Although I was born in Washington, DC, I consider myself a Californian. I moved here after college. It's the place where I truly grew up, where I became an adult, where I became myself. The twenty years I lived here were some of the best and certainly the most important and meaningful of my life.

Sometimes I'll meet people who turn up their noses at California. "Ew, why would you want to go there?" It might be crowded and expensive, but it's my home.

Up with the sun

Downsizing

The typical egg carton is just a little long for my refrigerator. It has to go in on a slope, which isn't always possible if other things are taking up room. So as I use up eggs, I cut down the carton, like this:

Then it fits easily, like this:

Sometimes I just start off cutting the carton in half as soon as I get it. I'm happiest, though, when the store has eggs in half dozens.

Mouse in the house

The Rolling Steel Tent makes noises as its various materials and contents cool for the night. Clicks, pops, pings, sighs, moans, mumbled complaints about the state of the world... But last night there were also the rustlings and scratchings of a critter. And the smell of mouse.

I tried making louder noises myself to scare it away. But the mouse kept coming back. So I got up and turned on some lights to figure out where it was. Yup, in the trash can.

Now, I don't mind a mouse eating a few morsels of my scraps and then moving on. But this one kept scurrying into the gap between the dashboard and engine cover. I didn't want it homesteading in there. Or developing a taste for wiring.

So when it was deep in the trash can, I plopped my Benchmark Atlas for California across the opening. It was just large enough to seal it closed. Then I took the trash can outside and freed the mouse, which promptly ran under the van. No sooner had I put the trash can back in its place than the mouse was back. What, five, six seconds to make its way through an opening (probably the heater ducts) to the dashboard? (Maybe that's why it's called a dashboard.)

After I grabbed my phone to get a picture (remember back when that phrase would make no sense?) we started a game of cat and mouse. Or man and mouse. It kept dashing in and out of the trash, in and out of the dashboard. But my patience won and I finally trapped the critter again. But rather than take it outside, I put a heavy weight on top of the atlas and went back to bed. "Eat to your heart's content, mouse."

After sunup I took the weight, the atlas, the trashcan and the mouse outside. Once free, it ran for the closest cover, which was the van. Of course. So this adventure isn't over yet.

The devil was not there

As I was driving from Mono Lake to Lone Pine, I saw the sign for Devils Post Pile National Monument. Sure, why not?

And there was a nice lake along the way.

Rock on

It's a little early in the season for those who come to Lone Pine, California, wanting to escape cold weather. So there were far more campsite choices along Movie Road in the Alabama Hills. I drove around until I found a spot nestled among the rocks. It's like my own little canyon.

The irony of coming to Lone Pine after complaining about the traffic in Yosemite is that Highway 395 was shut down for the Lone Pine Film Festival parade. Do I have a knack for timing, or what? Traffic was backed up for a couple of miles because too many people wanted to get a glimpse of the parade before turning down the detour.

Guys in western costumes firing blanks, people in cars trying to see what's going on

Once I made it to Alabama Hills, I discovered signs posted all over the place. At first I thought they were for areas that had been closed to camping. But they were information markers for the various spots used in movies filmed there. Frames from the movies were matched up with the rock formations. The signs were part of the film festival.

Maybe a half century from now, someone will use my photos to find the actual spot the famous Rolling Steel Tent once camped. Or not.

Time to go inland

Friday morning I flipped my mental coin. Heads, go south along the ocean. Tails, go to the Sierras. Tails won. But where to first?

Freecampsites.net pointed me to Panoche Hills BLM recreation area just over the coastal range in the Central Valley. However, the listing said, "Due to high fire danger, it is only open from October to April." And a commenter posted, "... this area is now closed to motorized access April-September." Okay. But when I got there, the sign on the gate said, "Closed April-October." Did that mean until October or through October? There was a number to call, but there was no cell service there.

I wasn't in the mood to risk getting chased away, so Plan B. The freecampsites.net listing also said, "There are full hook up camp sites at Mercey Hot Spring just a mile farther up little panoche road." Mmmmm, hot springs. So I went there and got a campsite. I did a hot soak at sunset and sunrise. Nice.

All refreshed, I headed off for Yosemite. I knew going on a weekend wasn't a great idea. It's worse when it's the long Columbus Day weekend. Lots of traffic and almost no place to park. But I lucked out at one of the scenic overlooks.

El Capitan on the left, Half Dome on the right

This was my first in Yosemite. Since it was packed, I figured I'd just drive around familiarizing myself with the general layout of the place. That way I'd have a better idea what I wanted to do when I returned. Then I continued east, up and over Tioga Pass, to Lee Vining and Mono Lake, where I'm now camped.

Free boondocking spot by Mono Lake

My original idea, up until a couple of hours ago, was to wait out the long weekend here at Mono Lake, then go back to Yosemite. But it's going to be freezing temperatures at might. That's no fun. I could cross back over the Sierras to the west side, at lower elevations, but chances are all the boondocking spots there are just as full as the park's campgrounds. So Plan C is to come back to Yosemite next year. For now, I'll head south to Lone Pine and the Alabama Hills. (The photo in the header above was taken at Alabama Hills this past spring.) There I'll formulate Plan D.

California 1 is number one with me

After a few days hanging around Capitola and Santa Cruz, I filled the tank, washed the Rolling Steel Tent, got some freshly made donuts, and continued my journey up California 1. I was in no rush, so I pulled off at several beaches and view points.

Waddell Beach

My  new second home, perhaps

Pigeon Point Light Station

Pescadero Beach

Also at Pescadero

Near Tunitas Creek, I think. See the guy at the water line for scale.

The goal of this drive was my old hometown, San Francisco. And I wanted to check out a view area/rest stop at the north end of the Golden Gate Bridge. Reports have it that you can overnight there. It's certainly not the place to be during the day, when the tourists are out in force. I'm not staying there this trip, but next time for certain.

Part of the view from the view area

It also happened to be Fleet Week. Among other things, that means performances by the Blue Angels and other precision flyers. I used to go up on the roof of the apartment building in the Marina District to watch them. I would be only four stories closer to them than the people on the ground, but it seemed like I could almost touch them as they shot past overhead. Ah, the memories.

I think that's the Brietling team. The Blue Angels are usually saved for Saturdays

Why didn't I do this sooner?

Every six or seven months the fridge will turn off because the 12 Volt plug is faulty. There was a loose contact in the plug. Or power-sucking invisible creatures. Or my stupidity. (I vote for the second possibility rather than the third.)

Goodbye, plug

So today, after the fridge went out again, I finally did what I should have done the first time there was a problem. I cut the plug off and hardwired the cord to the fuse block I had wired into the van a couple of years ago.

The cord polarity wasn't marked obviously enough (for me) so naturally, with a 50-50 chance of getting it wrong the first time, I did. But I switched it and (cue angelic choir) it worked.

A cover snaps onto this

Now I just need to secure it with some zip ties so the wires don't vibrate and break from the connectors.

The fuse block wasn't cheap, what with it being designed and marketed for marine applications, but it certainly makes wiring things easier once the fuse block is installed. It took about three minutes to make this repair, and half of that was about getting the tools from under the bed.

Up the coast

I'm spending a few days at New Brighton State Park in Capitol, California, by Monterey Bay. Here are some photos from my morning walk along the bluff and down to the beach

More coastal wildlife

I headed north on California Highway 1 today, through Big Sur to Monterey and Santa Cruz. I hadn't been that way in over twenty-five years. Ah, memories. A little north of San Simeon (Hearst Castle) is the Piedras Blancas Elephant Seal Rookery. I stopped to check it out.

They're called elephant seals because the mature males look like this:

I didn't see any bull males. I don't know if they were at sea or if their heads were down where I couldn't see their schnozolas (scientific term). But the adolescent males were active, doing what adolescent males of so many species do: trying to prove who the baddest dude is and impressing the babes.

Most of their fighting was just bumping heads together, but occasionally it got more serious and some bites would be traded.

Meanwhile, the babes just worked on their tans.

In  case you were wondering, here are the differences between seals and sea lions.

Sea lions are brown, bark loudly, "walk" on land using their large flippers and have visible ear flaps. Seals have small flippers, wriggle on their bellies on land, and lack visible ear flaps.

And unlike other pinnipeds I've encountered, elephant seals don't go, "Ork-ork-ork-ork-ork." Their vocalizations sound like loud, deep, wet burps. Maybe that's what a fish diet will do to you.

Gobble gobble

I was reading email when I heard the sound of a small animal outside the van. I turned and saw a turkey. Then another. And another. About a dozen in all. I grabbed the camera and managed to get some photos.

Huck's raft

About twenty years ago I saw a show about some guys sailing/floating a Huckleberry Finn-inspired raft down the Mississippi River. I was envious.

I started researching houseboat rentals (because I wasn't going to trust my raft building ability) and what it would actually take in the way of river knowledge and boat piloting skills. I learned it would be expensive and not really something for a first-time boater. So that idea got shelved.

I've realized my raft-on-the-Mississippi envy wasn't really about the raft or the river. It was about the journey. It was about seeing and learning new things. And it was about the freedom to do that.

Ah, freedom.

Huck and Jim were escaping bad situations. I didn't have an abusive drunken father, and I wasn't a slave about to be sold down the river, but I had my own comfortable, middle-class, suburban demons. I'd had enough of that life.

My raft might have wheels and my river might be paved, but I'm out here, on the journey, free and happy.