Space invaders

I’ve been camped in a nearly perfect spot in far southeastern California. A wide area between two converging washes. Only one way in. Sort of a cul-de-sac, even though I have ranted against them in the past. The closest neighbors are about two football fields away. My reclusive self was happy.

Until yesterday.

A little before sunset a truck pulling a toy hauler drove within feet of the Rolling Steel Tent. Then there was another. And another. And another. Then a truck with a flatbed trailer carrying two ATVs/OHVs/side-by-sides or whatever they call them these days. And an SUV. I thought they would discover the dead end and turn around. No, they were setting up camp, about 20 yards away, with a certainty of movement that conveyed it had been their plan from the beginning.

Dudes?!?!?

So, as they unloaded their ATVs/OHVs/side-by-sides or whatever they call them these days and started revving the engines, I secured a few onboard items and climbed into the driver seat. (My habit of not setting up outdoor living space allows for quick getaways.) There was plenty of other space I could move to. Plenty of other space the group could’ve moved to when (if) they saw I was already occupying the area. (Heck, I had even peed a few times around my territory. I guess that only works with critters.)

A group showing up on a Friday evening is probably weekenders. It has been my experience weekenders — particularly those with ATVs/OHVs/side-by-sides or whatever they call them these days — operate with different rules of camping etiquette. Or with none at all. C’est la vie nomade. Let it go, and go elsewhere. While giving them the stink eye.

UPDATE: Yup, weekenders. They left Sunday morning. Maybe they had planned on staying through the afternoon but my stink eye chased them off.

Adult content

I met up with part time nomads and full time wonderful people, Pam and Russell, in Los Algodones today. We had fish tacos, pozole, and cervezas, and caught up on the news. Then we stopped in a liquor store so Russell could buy a bottle of tequila. While he decided, Pam and I wandered around and spotted some… uh… shall we say interesting bottles. (For the record, it was Pam who pointed out the, um, connection.)

One for men and one for women? If so, which is for whom? ¿Quién es capaz de decir?

Owies

When I was a Boy Scout, they spent a lot of time teaching first aid, with many sessions of improvising bandages, making splints, crutches and stretchers, and learning the proper way to use tourniquets. Because, you know, Be Prepared.

All this left me with the impression that one or more of us (I hoped not me) would be seriously injured each time we ventured into the woods. Billy or Johnny would manage to find a cliff to fall from, leaving him broken and bleeding.

But we never had occasion to deal with compound fractures or severed arteries. Just cuts, scrapes, blisters, sunburn, insect bites, and the occasional twisted ankle—not even a proper sprain.

“Are you sure you don’t need us to bind that up with your neckerchief?”

“Nah, I’ll just walk it off.”

“How about a crutch? It would give us an excuse to chop up a branch. Maybe pad it with a neckerchief?”

“Nah, I feel much better already.”

“You’ve been scratching that mosquito bite a lot. We should bandage it with a neckerchief.”

“Leave me alone!”

So, why has Boy Scout first aid been on my mind?

Snagged my finger on a sharp bit of something in the toolbox. In my years out here on the road, where the building dwellers warn us it’s so dangerous, I haven’t needed much in the way of bandaging. Just some booboos now and then, mostly cuts. The worst was probably scraping some outer flesh from my shin when I lost footing in some rocks. And it was nowhere near a cliff. But I still have a bunch of bandaids and medical tape on hand. Maybe I should get a neckerchief or two, because Be Prepared, man.

Two propane buying experiences

My propane ran out this morning while making pancakes. Well, one flapjack is better than none. So I went into Yuma to refill the tank and pick up other items. Like perfect flour tortillas.

When I’m up in Quartzsite I get propane at Patty’s RV Park & Propane. It’s seldom busy and it’s a quick and simple process. I give the guy the tank, he hooks it up and pumps the ‘pane, I give him the money, he gives me the change, thanks are exchanged and I’m on my way. Maybe to make pancakes.

I’ve never bought propane in Yuma before, but I saw a U-Haul place on my way to the store. Getting a refill there was quite different, more formal. The guy started by inspecting my tank. Then he took a photo of the serial number. Then he asked my name and recorded it. Then he told me to stand on the other side of the barrier. The actual filling of the tank was the same as anywhere else. I imagine all these extra steps are to cover U-Haul’s ass. “If you gas yourself, catch on fire, or blow something up with a different tank, don’t come suing us.”

When I proffered my money, the guy rolled his eyes like I was giving something disgusting. He called the cashier and said, “He’s paying with cash.” I went into the office to pay, and the cashier gave me a stack of ones for my change, probably to show his distain. I think I’ll get my propane somewhere else next time.

Harina harina, tortillas más finas

I’ve been on the hunt for what I consider perfect flour tortillas. First of all, they need to be “soft taco size” so they’ll fit in my pan. That’s the easy part. 

What has been hard is finding thin ones. It seems someone has decided the world wants only thick tortillas. Nah, I’m not making sandwiches. I just want to wrap the filling and add a bit of charred flavor.

I’ve found thin flour tortillas a few times in the past, but when I go back for more, poof, they’re not around. But today I found what I think will be a reliable source: the house brand at Food City. They warmed up and toasted quickly, puffed up, and had that gluteny elasticity that’s perfect for rolling burritos.

So what’s in these burritos? A mix of ground beef, chorizo al pastor, refried beans, corn, and dehydrated hash browns, all cooked in chipotle sauce, and some cheese. ¡Muy sabroso!

Cozy in here

Sleeping

Back in the late 70s I read an article about a man living a minimalist life. Not off in some ashram (or van) in the wilderness, but right there in Los Angeles, surrounded by conspicuous consumers flouting their material accumulation.

Fresh out of college, I was living a minimalist life too, but not as a choice. I didn’t have much money, not much more than my clothes, some dishes and a handful of books. I was renting a furnished apartment because I didn’t own a bed or chair. I was hoping to afford a radio soon. Maybe a TV. That’s why I was working, right? To be able to buy stuff that would make life more comfortable, that would make me feel successful. 

But here was this guy wanting less. Wanting things simpler. He seemed crazy.

What stuck in my mind all these years was his bedroom. It was simply a mattress in the middle of the room. No other furnishings or decorations. Not even anything in the closet. A bed room. “It’s where I sleep. What more do I need when I’m unconscious?”

So here I am all these years later living a minimalist life. I don’t have the luxury of a dedicated bed room, though. Everything is in one space. And that’s fine. Not crazy at all.

Greetings and wishes

Wetness

I had sensed the humidity building — the type of humidity that made me flee the South and made me grumpy when I’d visit the Pacific Northwest. My washcloth wouldn’t dry. My hands felt clammy. I checked the forecast. Yup, rain on the way. One of this season’s El Nińo storms. It started during the night and continued through the afternoon, with occasional thunder.

Of course, I got wondering about the ground conditions in this patch of desert. It’s hard packed gritty sand/dirt. No layer of “desert pavement” stones, but firm enough that tire tracks barely show — when dry. Around noon it looked like most of the water was soaking in. How much water could this ground hold before becoming a problem? By about 2:00 there was standing water outside the van approximately an inch deep. It didn’t seem any deeper an hour later, but it looked like I was in the middle of a lake.

Then the sun came out and there was a double rainbow. And I had better light to asses my situation. Not that bad. Maybe not bad at all. 

It has been a couple of hours since the photo above and water is no longer standing around the Rolling Steel Tent. It’s only visible in the lower areas. Anyway, I don’t need to go anywhere for a few days, so I can let the area dry out more.  In my home for the holidays.

UPDATE: At 9:00 PM I went out with a flashlight and didn’t see any standing water near me.

Hi

New tires

I got a lot of good wear and general happiness out of the Cooper Discoverer AT3 LT tires I’ve had the past few years. So, when the tread got thinner than the space between the edge of a penny and Lincoln’s hair, I went into Discount Tire and had a new set installed.

One reason I buy Cooper tires is they’re made in the United States. So, yay for jobs for American workers. And though the company was acquired by Goodyear a couple of years ago, Goodyear is the last American tire company not owned by a foreign corporation.

I buy from Discount Tire when I can because they’ve always had fair prices and I’ve never needed to have the tires rebalanced, unlike another place I used once upon a time.

These tires will do more sitting than rolling until other parts of the country warm up.

What’s the date?

You can tell it’s not yet high season in Quartzsite not only because you can easily find a parking spot at the Tyson Wash vendor tents, and because there are available washers at the laundromat. Even if you hadn’t experienced the lack of congestion “downtown” you’d know it’s still shoulder season because cellular bandwidth isn’t clogged. Hurray for data usage!

New location, more trees

I’ve been thinking about some van modifications

The stuff

I was going through my old photos files and came across a batch from when I was a homeowner. I loved that stainless steel medical cabinet from Los Angeles, the raku pots from North Carolina, the carved creature from Mexico, the photo I took of the Louvre, the octagonal mirror from Utah, the barber shop sign from Nigeria (the sliver of a face in the bottom left corner), the painting I did of the woman, the other paintings, the leather club chair… But I was ready to let those things and so much else go so I could live the life I have now. It was someone else’s turn to love my stuff.