Nevada slog

I was a bus passenger the only other time I was on I-80 between Elko and Reno. There are harsher stretches of country, like US-50 across the belly of Nevada, but there’s something about Elko to Reno (or Reno to Elko) that makes it seem twice as far as it is. And unlike the bus trip, I couldn’t sleep to pass the time.

Because winter will be here before you know it

There are many nomads who knit and crochet. And some of them worry about keeping their vehicles sufficiently warm. Well, here’s some inspiration.

Another repeat

I camped at Angle Lake, near Wells, Nevada on September 15, 2015. I got snowed on during the night and cut my stay short.

I camped again at Angel Lake last night. The weather was quite pleasant, considering it’s over 8,000 feet up. No snow this time.

Repeat

September 10, 2013, only a couple of weeks into my nomadic life, I camped at City of Rocks National Preserve in southern Idaho.

September 10, 2018 I camped at City of Rocks again.

Old life, new life, and stuff

You can’t take it all with you

When you decide to become a full-time nomad you’re committing to a new life, a different life. The question—and the potential source of problems, disappointments and frustrations—is how different you’re willing to let the new life be.

Do you want it to be essentially the same, just without housing costs and with greater mobility? Or do you want to take the big leap and remake your life from bottom to top, inside and out?

Does becoming a nomad seem like loss to you or like opportunity? Are you giving up so much, or gaining even more?

Life change is easier for some folks because there’s nothing about their old life worth keeping. But for the rest of us, the idealized concept of hitting the road eventually collides with the reality of deciding what to keep and what to let go—of the material goods we surround ourselves with and of the stuff in our hearts and minds.

Okay, let me pull back from the internal stuff before I get too philosophical and spiritual and start babbling about attachments, enlightenment and the meaning of life. That’s your own trip to make. And it’s not what inspired me to write this post. I’ll concentrate on the material world for a moment.

So, there are people preparing for full-time nomading. And they’re sorting their stuff, dividing it into needs and wants until they don’t have too much to fit in their vehicle. I was there.

But a woman who calls herself ChezCheese has proposed a different approach.

Imagine you have nothing. Lost it all. Flood or fire or divorce or the taxman: you have only your van that was parked elsewhere and survived your own private, personal disaster. Drive around in your empty van (I mean in real time now, not in your imagination). A long drive. Go to a national park or some empty place. Sleep in it, with nothing. Maybe you feel cold, or sore, or hungry. Next morning: decide what is most important to have. Get that one thing. 

Spend another day driving, another night sleeping in your empty-except-for-that-one-first-thing van. Next morning, decide what the next most important thing to have is. Get that thing. 

And on, and again, until you realize that you have enough stuff.

Start here

In other words, start by determining your essentials, not by trying to whittle everything down to a manageable pile. Add the wants after you’ve got the needs taken care of.

Or, as George Carlin put it:

Hunch

The phone conversation with Lou was short on details. He said he would be leaving Coos Bay to do some fly fishing on the Owyhee River.

I said, “You’re heading to far eastern Oregon and I’m heading to western Idaho. Let’s meet up.”

“I’ll be downstream of the dam, ” he said. “Just drive until you see me.”

Since he wouldn’t be leaving Coos Bay for a day or two, and since it’s a couple of days driving for him, and since he’d be fishing for at least a few days, I figured I had time to call back for details. But I failed to figure there would be no cell service where he’d be camped. Oops.

I had never been to the Owyhee River and didn’t know how to access it. I saw the town of Owyhee on the map and trusted Google to get me there.

I started having my doubts when Google sent me wandering down farm roads. Go west two miles, turn north for one mile, turn west for seven miles, turn south for five miles, turn west for two miles, turn north for a half mile, turn west for a half mile, turn south for eight miles… At least it didn’t send me east.

Then I happened to see a sign with an arrow pointing left. Lake Owyhee State Park, 25 miles, campground vacancy. I didn’t know if that road would take me to Lou, but I decided to risk it. At least there was a campground in case I didn’t find him.

But I did. It was the right road to the right place. Good guess.

Unfortunately, a few minutes before I arrived, Lou had lost his footing in the river and bashed a shin on a submerged boulder. He was limping and swearing, but still had a bit of humor left.

“It seems like whenever you’re within 200 miles I hurt myself somehow.”

He kept his shin iced and the general swelling was down to just an ugly knot by morning. But Lou felt too gimpy to be wading in the river, so he decided to move on.

“You know, Lou, I’m trying to remember the last time we boondocked together rather than being at someone else’s place while working on projects, like in Redmond, Salem, Ridgway...”

“Probably outside Yuma a couple of winters ago.”

“That sounds right.”

Now the answer to that question would be, “There was that one night on the Owyhee River in September of 2018.”

Beggar

I never thought I’d say this

The rising sun illuminates the western peeks

It would be an understatement to say I was never much of a morning person. I hated mornings. Probably because I loved sleeping so much. However, since becoming both an old fart and a van dweller my internal clock has shifted to where I happily wake up around 6:00 a.m. That doesn’t mean I get out of bed, though. It’s still one of my favorite places—especially when it’s 53°F/11.6°C in the van.

Summer is nearly over, the autumnal equinox is just down the road, and there’s less daylight. I haven’t noticed it that much yet in the evenings. I’m a little surprised it’s not totally dark until after 8:15 p.m. or so. But, man, lately it seems like the sun… will… never… rise. It’s even worse when, like today, I’m surrounded by mountains.

I’ve said many times before I’m a huge fan of Daylight Saving Time. I think it should be the standard. But dare I say it? Here goes: I think I’ll be a little glad when we shift back to Standard Time. How about a compromise? Let’s shift just a half hour. A little more sunlight in the morning without losing too much in the evening. Or I could chase daylight southward. How long would it take to drive to Chile?

Well, since they said, “Absolutely...”

More Idaho

Just outside Stanley ID

Particulates

I left Salmon after lunch and headed south on US-93. The original goal had been a free campsite a little south of Challis, but halfway there I saw the sign for Cottonwood Recreation Site. I pulled in to check it out for future reference and decided I liked it enough to stay. It’s only five bucks with the old fart discount. Almost free.

I was in the middle of some serious relaxing when I became aware how clean and fresh the air was. It’s like that out here in the sparsely populated regions.

Then, maybe a half hour later, the folks in an upwind campsite started their toy hauler-hauling diesel Super Duty and let it idle while they gathered up the kids and bid friends goodbye. My air (and the silence) was spoiled.

The air cleared up shortly after they left, un-harshing my mellow. A-a-a-a-a-h-h-h-h.

But then, somewhere else upwind, someone fired up their barbecue. First there was the stink of lighter fluid, followed by the gooey smell of caramelizing barbecue sauce and the sharp scent of carbonizing meat. I appealed to the forces of nature to shift the wind direction. No luck.

So I went into extreme meditation mode (napping) and the air eventually cleared again. A-a-a-a-a-h-h-h-h.

If things like this really bugged me I would avoid campgrounds. But they’re minor, temporary, and give me something to blog about.

Nannies taking the kids down to the river

Buzzless

Conventional wisdom—at least the wisdom of my friend Vanholio!—says camping by water means camping with mosquitoes.

Guess what else loves water? Mosquitoes! That goes for lakes, ponds, marshes, creeks, rivers, seashore, bays, and the rest. Water equals mosquitoes.

But I’ve been lucky this year. Despite camping by various bodies of water I been bitten on only two nights. Knock on wood.

In addition, the past couple of weeks seems to have been the end of fly season. I’ve been able to have the Rolling Steel Tent’s windows and doors open without needing to constantly swat or spray. There have been occasional flies, but they were the type that flew in, took a look around, then left. They weren’t the type that insist on buzzing around my face. Thank you.

Really, I'm not fixated on vault toilets

This is the only vault toilet I’ve ever seen with a mural. Heidi Messner’s painting elevates the Lemhi Hole river access site from being just a dirt parking lot. Free camping, a place to poop and art? Excellent.

You know, artists often have their work figuratively shat upon by critics, but in this instance...

Watching the water