Monthly Archives: March 2011
Ubehebe
The wind howled as I looked over the crater rim. Volcanic pellets sandblasted my exposed flesh, and twice the gusts were enough to knock me sideways. This was crazy, but I continued along Ubehebe’s rim, pulling my sweatshirt’s hood up over my head because the constant pounding of the wind was hurting my eardrum.
The crater, which is a half mile wide, was formed 3000 years ago when groundwater turned to steam by the heating power of magma. The resulting explosion dropped debris 150 feet thick over a 6 square mile area. Little Hebe, which is right next door, was formed the same way, but only 500 years ago.
I found a spot that was protected from the wind, sat down, and dangled my legs over the eroded edge. It was so peaceful. I could still hear the wind, but it seemed so far away now. I followed the layers of Earth down to the bottom, watching the tiny forms of people among the creosote. In the end, I would head down there too, but I wasn’t in a hurry to give up the solitude of the rim.
Little Yuma
The Rover ran well today, although it only hit 12.47 MPG. Part of the drop since JOTR could be attributed to my putting the H2O jugs back up on the roof rack. I tightened up the linkage and checked all the fluids this morning before I left the Joshua Tree Inn. A family, that had the two rooms next door, swarmed around me as I worked on the truck. The mother wanted a picture, but I refused to pose. She settled for a pic with my legs sticking out from under The Rover. I told her that it was appropriate. The father wanted to know if my tightening & checking of things was a morning ritual, which I assured him it was. One of the sons told me that he was coming up to Alaska for part of the summer, but when he couldn’t tell me when or what part of the state he was visiting, I lost interest and went back to the truck. After much lingering, he finally asked, “What part of the state should I visit?” I told him “Anchorage”.
I am in Death Valley, on the edge of the most dreadful campground I have ever experienced in a National Park. I have named it “Little Yuma” due to all of the Snowbirds and their RV’s. Unfortunately, the campground volunteers did not find the term as endearing as I do.
Since I wandered and stopped often today, I arrived late and all of the campgrounds that I could make before dark were full, except Little Yuma. The weather is phenomenal for D.V. with high temps in the mid to upper 70’s all week. When I staked out this spot, I was alone out here on the fringe, but even that is now full. An older gentleman, a widower, is off my driver’s side door. He is tenting it out of a little, white Honda. The two person dome tent has seen many years of service, but it has also been many years since it has seen any. The campchair, Coleman stove and Therma-rest are all fresh out-of-the-box new.
Off the passenger door is a Dutchmen Classic, which was pulled in by a smoke-gray 2010 Ford. The trailer is huge for one person: A man, about 45, divorced. I do not know why people insist on telling me these details, but the wife took the house and the kids and he left with the truck & fifth wheel. We were talking until he started up the generator. At that time, I decided to go for a walk. As I was walking away, an old Suzuki Samurai with Alaskan plates drove around the corner and stopped by my Rover, but they had a Palin bumper sticker so I kept walking.
As bad as this site is, I am getting a perverse kick out of it, and I don’t know exactly why. I feel like a goldfish looking into the fish bowl.
I am such a snob when it comes to RV-ers, or Recreational Vampires. It is an absolutely beautiful night, yet everyone around me has climbed up into their rolling coffins. So I sit here in shorts & a t-shirt, kicked back in my chair with my feet on the tailgate, drinking an ice cold Smithwick’s straight from the 12V ABR, watching my brats cook on the Coleman grill. At least I can rough it.
Two other guys have stopped to chat about The Rover since I started writing this. One rode up on a scooter of some sort, and the other was on a bicycle. The Scooter Guy wanted a photo, and I was too comfortable to get out of the frame in time, so I suppose I am now on an 89 year old man’s Facebook page. Mr Pedal Bike was pretty cool, and into all vehicles British. He enjoyed the old joke about why Englishmen drink warm beer— he hadn’t heard it before— then went on to tell me that he has an “old Mini that he is souping up”. It turns out the Mini is a ’91, which in my world is not Old, but I let it slide.
I am so ornery today, I better get into the back country tomorrow, or innocent people are going to suffer…
And we certainly wouldn’t want that…
Joshua Tree
I was scolded a bit today for coming to a halt on the blog. “The trip didn’t end yet and you left us hanging in Mexico!” All true, but I have not been in a “sharing” mood. I did hit the road over the weekend, leaving San Diego for Joshua Tree National Park. If things go well, I expect I’ll update more, even though I have no idea what/where/when ……
You can fill in the blank.
The Rover still has me concerned, but that is mostly due to the unknown and the Gunshy Factor. Mentally, I’d be feeling better if the 40 year old parts failed, and not the 4 month old parts… but I wasn’t given a choice in all of that, and craftmanship is a dying art.
The winds were howling last night in the park; it felt like I was riding in a ship at sea when I climbed up into the roof tent. The Rover is parked so that I am somewhat sheltered by the truck, as I hide out behind the open tailgate, with a Smithwick’s. A particularly nasty gust hits the tent and the awning support rods shoot off into the air like a released spring and land behind a large boulder.
The rain hits before midnight, but by morning there is no sign of it in the dry sand. I raise the hood of the truck to check everything. This act attracts three Harley riders from Hutchinson, Minnesota. We chat, exchange stories, and find out that we all know some guy in Fairbanks. There is a guy from Buenos Aires who drives out of the campground in a mid-eighties Land Cruiser that has been completely converted: only the cab is original. He stops and fans the flames by telling that he has driven up from Ushuaia and is on his way to Alaska. DAMMIT! I want to tell him that it is still -40 degs in the Yukon, but I don’t. We trade info on the routes we’ve taken and I give him a couple of Alaskan secrets.
The Rover’s first gas tank gave me 12.8 MPG, which is dreadful compared to the 19.2 we were getting prior to the meltdown. The last fill showed that it had improved to 13.65, still nothing to write home about. The linkage to the gas pedal has been troublesome again, and I noticed that a bolt was left out when the motor was re-installed. I’ll have to crawl under there in the morning, remove the plate and tighten that all up again. I’ll have to make do with the missing bolt, since it is an odd size, but it’ll get me to a hardware store.
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