Because why not

So, say you've got an old parts truck just sitting there. Say you're the type of guy who likes to build things, and that you have a sense of humor. What would you do? Well, this is what Forrest did.

It's not a flux capacitor. It's not a nuclear reactor. It's not a wood-fired engine. It's a smoker. (The valve covers and timing chain cover are a nice touch.)

Let's make some jerky

Surviving, thriving

There are relatives and non-nomadic friends who have a hard time understanding how I can wander around, usually by myself. All alone. Without strong social attachments. Without a base to return to.

To them, I'm like the tree in the picture above. They worry that I will shrivel and die. But I see a tree that's doing fine, with just enough connections to the rest of the world.

Lou hangs out at the Independence Day party

Speaking of enough connections, Lou and I have met up again. We're with Forrest, at his place in Ridgway, Colorado, to help him build some cabins.

Forrest rebuilds a carburetor

We're going to build a couple more of these

I've met and shared meals and conversations with Forrest's girlfriend, Avril, and his friend, Joe. I've been to a party with about thirty strangers. (That was a bit of an overdose for an introvert like me, but I survived and had a fairly good time.) So my life is not a wasteland of solitude. Except when I want it to be.

Darkness, schmarkness

Back in October I posted about the lighting in the Rolling Steel Tent. I've realized since then that I don't use the lights very much.

First of all, I have things sufficiently organized, and I'm good enough about putting things back in their places, that I can usually find most of my stuff in the dark. I can do a lot of things by touch. When I need light, I turn one on long enough to do whatever it is I need the light for, then I turn it off.

I've also discovered there is often enough ambient light coming through the windows. Distant lights, someone's fire, moonlight, etc.

But my main source of don't-turn-on-the-lights light comes from small LED indicators on my charge controller and battery monitor. That's really quite a bit of light when one's irises are fully dilated.

Oh look, I can see the toilet paper and hand sanitizer

Consider that artificial light is no simple thing for a lot of people in the world, and that it was a rarity for most of human history. But as with most modern conveniences, we've come to consider nighttime light as a necessity. It's getting dark, turn on the lights. We even turn on lights in the daytime.

Maybe it's a remnant of the primitive fear of things that go bump, or that growl, in the night. Light claims our space, establishes a perimeter, banishes the beasties. Yes, light extends the day, but it also extends us. Our world becomes much smaller when wrapped in darkness. It's just me, and the things I can touch.

We tend to think not having enough light is bad for our eyes. But maybe not having enough darkness is what's really bad—for our eyes and for our minds. Maybe we become less of a person when we can't function in the dark. Or maybe I just spend too much time in the dark, thinking weird things.

Nice drive

If you should find yourself in central Colorado in the summer, heading west on I-70, you might want to time things so that you pass through Glenwood Springs in the morning. Not too soon after sunup, but while the sun is still somewhat low in the sky. Because up ahead is Glenwood Canyon. Steep cliffs, trees hugging the Colorado River, railroad tracks squeezed between the cliffs and river, three tunnels and a double-decker highway. The morning (or late afternoon) light reflects off the cliffs, creating a soft ambiance. If you're lucky, you might have some big, fluffy clouds adding to the drama. And since westbound is gradually downhill, neither you nor your vehicle feel stressed.

My father was a highway engineer, so I know they try to plot routes that are the easiest to build. Save on costs and time. But sometimes they have no choice but to go the hard way, like through a narrow canyon with a major river in it. Because the alternatives are even harder.

Sometimes chunks of the cliffs come down, such as this winter. But the highway is repaired now and a joy to drive. I almost turned around so I could do it again.

Now, true, Glenwood Canyon would have been a stunningly beautiful place back before there was a road or rail or anyone to name it Glenwood Canyon. But we don't live then. And we like to get places. So at least we have an attractive highway that's a little like gliding through a section of Disneyland. (Part Adventureland, part Autopia.) Only better. And real. And free.

I wasn't having one of those good days

It started with rain.

Then the mosquitoes.

Then more rain, which at least sent the mosquitoes into hiding.

Then a nightmare that was so horrible I was asking others in the dream, "Is this real? Is this real?" And, when I awoke into reality, it took a while to convince myself that actual reality was real.

And then there was more rain.

And fog.

"I need to leave," I told myself. Not that I blamed the place I was camped (other than the mosquitoes, rain and fog). I just needed to be on the move, doing something other than staying out of the rain.

But there's rain all over the region. So I'm parked at a Safeway until my hotel room is available. Big splurge. Climate control and a hot shower. Happy July 4th weekend.

Not a campfire kind of guy

The other evening was like many others I've experienced in the past. It was early evening, with about four hours of daylight left, and other campers had started campfires. They wouldn't be cooking on them. It wasn't anywhere near cold. It seemed like they built fires because that's what one is supposed to do when camping. By the time it was dark and a little chilly, they were out of wood.

The only time in my van dwelling life I've built fires was to burn some trash.

I've been known to hang around other people's campfires for social reasons, and that's probably one of the big reasons for campfires. But for me it's a battle between fellowship and smoke.

Smoke.

My mother taught at a private school. There was a fire in her building, and although it didn't reach her classroom, the smoke and firefighters' water did. She took me with her to survey the damage and see what teaching materials she could salvage. The odor was imprinted on my memory. I think it was part of a don't-play-with-fire lesson she wanted to teach me.

So, besides being acrid, choking and clinging, smoke conjures bad memories. And if I'm not going to cook and it isn't cold, then fires are wasteful. If I show up at your campfire to socialize, don't expect me to stay long, no matter how good of a time we're having. Or how many marshmallows need toasting.

Trying to find the sweet spot

Too much heat in one direction, too much rain in the other. So I'm back near Leadville, by Twin Lakes. (The lakes are on the other side of that small hill where the tree-admiring couple is sitting.) Wind cooled things down and kept the storm—and bugs—away. The "campground" is a parking lot, but it will do for a couple of days. If it does rain, I'm on gravel rather than dirt, which turns to mud.

Not a bear

The campground host warned that a bear had been around lately. I figured it was a perfect time to set up my trail camera.

I didn't get a photo of any bears sniffing around the Rolling Steel Tent, but what's that bent over by that tree? Bigfoot? Nah, just a fellow camper getting water from one of the faucets. But maybe he/she has big feet.

Streaming

This is West Chicago Creek near Idaho Springs, Colorado, where people like to scramble their place names to confuse outsiders.

Okay, enough with the elevation thing

There was a time when someone could say, "Hey, let's build a road to the top of one of the highest mountains around here," and everyone would reply, "Yeah! That would be neat!" And there was a time when someone else would say, "And let's build a strange looking restaurant up there," and everyone would reply, "Wow! When can we start?"

Well, all but the stone walls of the Crest House were destroyed in 1979 in a fire caused by an exploding propane tank (a cautionary tale for fellow van dwellers and RVers), but the road is still there and chuckleheads like me can still drive up there to see the view. And gasp for air.

Technicalities

While Leadville is North America's highest incorporated city, Alma is the highest incorporated town. When you're a tiny village of 270 people, you gotta take your bragging rights where you can get them. Besides, Most Cannabis Shops Per Capita (two stores, which equals one per 135 residents) is probably not the best thing to put on a sign. Oh, maybe that's what they mean by highest.

Breathe deeply

I was boondocking along the road to Weston Pass, near Fairplay, Colorado, when I realized, whooo... boy... the air is kinda thin up here. Over 10,000 feet high.

People who are totally acclimated have no problem hiking, running, cycling, skiing... But I was winded after strolling around taking pictures.

Filling my lungs as deeply as possible feels great. It's a special bonus that the air is incredibly fresh. Cool, dry, fragrant—just the way I like it. I can forgive it for being a little short on oxygen.

Going old school

I wasn't very familiar with Colorado until this month. I'd blasted through on I-70 a couple of times in years past. I'd been in and out of the southwest corner as a van dweller. That was about it. I knew I'd need cartographic assistance. Since the mountains don't lend themselves to handy net access, Google Maps would have limited usefulness. So I got out my Benchmark Atlas for Colorado. Now it rides shotgun.

The atlas provides more information than online maps. Paved or unpaved, elevation, what sort of public land there might be, and so forth. Then I can mark where I've been with pink highlighter, circle places I'd like to go in the future, make notes.

GPS works in the mountains, and it's useful when I want to get from A to B, but it doesn't know what to do when I want to explore. What's up that road? Will it eventually get me where I think I want to go? Is there something more interesting than Garmin's idea of the best route? GPS is for efficiency, not informed wandering. I haven't found the edge of the Earth in the atlas yet, unless that's everything east of Denver.

Tomorrow I head out to somewhere else I've never been. I might not have considered it if I hadn't seen it in the atlas.

The Six Stages of Digital Angst

1. Frustration
I was out of the canyons and back to a place with cell service. Two bars of 4G on the phone, one bar of 4G on my JetPack. (Why does the phone get better reception, Verizon?) So I got online to post and to check on things in general. Then the signal dropped to two bars of 3G. Then one bar of 1X. Then no service. Was it because of the storm moving in? Ergh.

2. Confusion
I thought, okay, maybe if I went into town where the signal is stronger. I did. Still no service. Hmmm. What if I jumped on some free wifi? Oh look, Gunnison has city-wide free wifi. Click to connect and... Nothing. Hmmm. What about McDonald's? Their wifi is dependable. Nothing. The phone wouldn't connect. The JetPack wouldn't connect. The laptop wouldn't connect. What's going on?

3. Panic
Oh crap! Has my account been hacked? Have my devices been screwed up by some kind of malware? Is there a Verizon store here where I can get answers? I can't even search for one online. Aaaaak! I'm going to die!!!!

4. Enlightenment
Then I learned it wasn't just me and my devices. Service was down over a wide area. Someone had accidentally cut a fiber optic cable. (I thought the cellular system communicated only wirelessly. I guess not.) ATMs, cash registers, gas pumps, anything connected to the Web—all down.

5. Serenity
This wasn't about me, and my problems were small compared to others'. So, breathe deeply and wait for technicians to restore service. (And for some knuckleheaded backhoe operator to be yelled at.) Time for a nap.

6. Celebration
Yay! Everything is back back up and running. All is right with the world.

One does not mess with the sheep

We know this thanks to a series of Loony Tunes. Who says years of cartoon watching will make us (more) stupid?