Day 3 on the road – Pahrump to Valley of Fire

Lessons in life are always hard to take, no matter how much we need to experience them. In my case, you simply can’t live over six decades on the planet without, at some point, coming to that conclusion. Hopefully, as you get older, you take those lesson-learning episodes in stride and keep on keeping on, hopefully a bit more savvy as you go forward.

Such has been my experience with the retailer I call Wally World, that bastion of cut rate sales most other people know as Walmart. In the beginning I regarded Wally World as so overtly predatory in its marketing practices, so unmindful of the irreparable damage they were doing to main street America, that I simply refused to patronize the place under any circumstances

So it was Friday morning we found ourselves at the Pahrump Valley Walmart where the parking is commodious and the greeters are friendly, if somewhat ancient. Doing our part for the economy, we bought everything from two sets of towels we forgot to bring as a laundry-day backup to the first set we did remember to bring, to our favorite yogurt and orange juice. Of course the reason that we chose Walmart instead of Honest Eddie’s Main Street Grocery was because I needed a special RV fitting for our sewer hose that allows one to hook a garden hose to the non-exit end of the hose and flush it out with water before you pack it for travel. I had already looked for that special item at each of the campground stores we had explored since we left home, but we had so far been unsuccessful. We also scored a plastic bin into which I intended to put our constant companion, a case of Arrowhead water.

Later, as we stood in the “20 items or less” line and listened to the glitter-gulch showgirl turned senior citizen retail clerk chat about washing her dog to the fascinated, and obviously flirty, male customer ahead of us, I gazed around the sales floor and, perhaps for the first time, realized that we simply would not be able to function on the road without Wally World. Walton’s brainchild may be responsible for turning 10,000 American main streets into the world’s finest source of used brick, but we had quietly abandoned our Quixotic quest for retail morality and joined the vast herd of deal seekers looking to provision yet another cross-country adventure.

Our shopping concluded, and once again on the road, we set our course south for the thriving desert metropolis of Las Vegas. As Pahrump receded in our mirrors, we sat back to enjoy some truly fabulous desert scenery along route 160. I think it was John C. Fremont who was the first non-native American to see the willow-choked springs and sandy valley that came to be called Las Vegas. He’d certainly recognize the vast stretches of sage and sand flanked by multi-colored sandstone cliffs that still adorn route 160 into the southern border of Las Vegas. The vistas are, I’m sure, just as breathtaking as they were over nearly 170 years ago.

But that’s where the similarity to historic southern Nevada ends. Once we reached Las Vegas proper and transitioned from route 160 to route 15 into the heart of the city, the drive turned from one of desert quietude to one of mass pandemonium. All of a sudden it was everyman for himself, or so it seemed. The wonderful, leisurely two-lane desert road suddenly became ten lanes of suicide bombers bent on somehow, some way getting to wherever they were going before they actually left. It reminded me ever so much of those scenes in the movie, The Fifth Element, where Bruce Willis is “driving” a cab that can go in literally ANY direction in three dimensions. Cars are coming at him in so many directions and so fast that you consider it a major miracle when he doesn’t hit much of anything. Well, that was us today.

I seldom push the RV over 60 mph, partially out of respect for a gracefully aging, 18 year old machine, and partially because I want to be able to enjoy the scenery and not get to where I’m going too fast. Unless we have reservations for some reason, most days we don’t care if we get anywhere at all. So being hemmed in by an entire flotilla of Kamikaze cars going seventy-five and eighty is exhilarating at best and downright terrifying at worst.

Still, we managed to get all the way through the worst of Las Vegas traffic without incident and were soon once more motoring at a more serene tempo. When it got close to noon I picked a likely off-ramp exclaiming that the business operating near the ramp looked like they had a nice level area to park the RV and far enough from the freeway to lessen the noise. It wasn’t until we were halfway through lunch that Concetta informed me that I had picked the entrance to the local landfill for my midday culinary event. I shrugged, “the landscaping is nice.” I said, and we went on eating.

Our destination for the afternoon stop was the Valley of Fire State Park. Having lived in southern Nevada for over a decade, Concetta had been to Valley of Fire before and had often told me about the incredible rock formations to be found there. Still, as we approached the park gate and made ready to pay our entrance fee, I could hardly believe the celebration of geology that lay before us. It was just downright awesome. Later, when we had snagged the only full-hookup campsite left in the park and had put down our temporary roots, we took off on foot to see as much of the 250 million year old sandstone deposits as we could in the fading afternoon light. Wow! What a humbling experience. Everywhere I turned the camera lay absolutely stunning orange rock formations flanked by a brilliant blue sky and white fleecy clouds. It was like a box of crayons on steroids. I just couldn’t get enough of the place. Back at the RV we spent the balance of the afternoon watching the sun set, sipping a bit of Vodka and cranberry juice, and chatting about adventures past, present, and future. What a day!

Tomorrow we’re setting out on foot to the Visitor Center which, the ranger told me, lies about two miles from here. “Watch for cars,” the ranger said, tapping his radar unit. “They don’t always obey the speed limits.” Dang, I thought, when you’re keeping company with 250,000,000 year old rocks, what exactly is their hurry?

Day two -- a Sojourn through Death Valley

Contrary to what you might imagine, I found the stark reality of Death Valley had a hugely positive effect on me today. Initially it took a lot of attention to detail to navigate the two-lane, winding roads that dropped down into the valley from the higher elevations of Highway 395 west of Olancha and I found it hard to concentrate much on the scenery. Still, any fan of geology will simply find the valley immensely interesting. Millions of years of alluvial material laid down by the weathering away of whatever mountains once existed in this part of the world has deposited layer after layer of mud and sand and rock, each layer having its own distinctive color and texture. Then if you can imagine a huge level stack of carpets of this sandy material with a couple of gigantic football teams facing each other, each holding the edge of the stack carpets, and each pushing for all they're worth toward the center, you can imagine the geology of Death Valley. Each layer is pushed into peaks and valleys of strata like a huge, bunched up carpets. Some layers lie at a forty-five degree angles. Some layers are nearly vertical. It's downright humbling to think that the Pacific tectonic plate has so much power that even all these miles inland the geology of the valley can be crushed and mangled so magnificently by those forces.

But that's not the positive effect that I was talking about. No, it wasn't until we were sitting outside the Furnace Creek visitor's center that I had an epiphany. It happened as I watched the dozens of visitors coming and going. Concetta and I had just returned from the center where we had toured the museum of valley history and ecology. Concetta was making our sandwiches and I has just observing the activity in the parking lot. Activity was everywhere. RVs coming and going. Young people who were bicycling the valley were finding shade for a quick drink of water. Old timers were beating a path to the center door to learn what there was to see in the valley. People taking photos. People having picnics on the grass. People depositing their trash and recyclables in the proper bins. People taking their pets for a walk. People just being, well, people. That's when it struck me. These were Americans just being American. They're exploring their history, the bounty of what our ancestors have fought for over the centuries. They weren't painting graffiti on any walls. They weren't throwing their trash on the ground. They weren't confronting each other for the sole remaining parking spot. They were just being the kind of folks who, over the centuries, made this country grand and a place of which we can be proud.

I first wandered into Death Valley on New Years week of 1976. I was 26 years old and after 18 months of life in Carson City, Nevada, I had finally earned enough money to survive for awhile without working and it was my intent to drive back to L.A. by way of Las Vegas and to take up residency with some old chums of mine from my sea-going days. When I reached Beatty, on a whim, I hung a right and plunged into the wilds of Death Valley. Then, to prove I was just darn adventurous, I took another angled right and took the rough, rutted, rocky shortcut known as the Titus Canyon road. The Titus Canyon road was 27 miles of one of the most challenging four wheel drive treks in the park. Only I wasn't driving a 4x4. I was driving my little Datsun 510 sedan, a standard two wheel drive passenger car. Let's just say the going was tough on the little rice burner. Still, I managed to climb to the very highest point on the shortcut without incident even though I had spent most of the trip dancing between ruts and washouts and rocks the size of footballs. Once at the top of the pass I breathed a sigh of relief that the hard part was obviously behind me. That's just about the time I zigged when I should have zagged and a jagged stone shaped roughly like an Anazasi obsidian arrowhead sliced through the sidewall of one of my rear tires and brought my adventure to at least a temporary end. No worries, I had cheated fate somewhat by bringing along TWO spares, which would be very handy since I was only halfway across the desolate shortcut and anything might happen in the last ten or twelve miles. But once I begun to descend from the top of the pass, down toward the valley again, I entered a wonderful snake-like canyon full of twists and turns and the going was easier on the sandy bottom. For awhile I was totally awestruck by the beauty of the canyon -- well, until I began to recall stories of flash floods in desert environments. Then I started nervously watching the skies behind me to make sure that no dark clouds had started forming and calculating the probability of my surviving an impromptu flash flood in the twisty, narrow-walled canyon. But I made it okay and happily spent most of the rest of the day at Scotty's Castle. Once it started toward to dusk I jumped back in my little Datsun and motored further into the park where I spent a very cold night sleeping in my car at Stovepipe Wells. We passed Stovepipe Wells today on our journey to Pahrump and I glanced over at my sleeping spot as we passed. Times have certainly changed.

But passing Stovepipe wasn't the most awesome event that happened today. No, the most awesome event happened as Concetta and I stood on the rim of Death Valley looking into a canyon which plunged steeply down and down to the valley floor below. I think our elevation was around 3,000 feet and we needed shortly to descend to a couple of hundred feet BELOW sea level. The view was breathtaking and we lingered on the edge just snapping photos and admiring the view. Suddenly, and without any warning, the all-encompassing thunderous roar of a jet engine engulfed us as a military jet fighter (find red arrow) dove right past us, twisting and turning with the rugged geology of the canyon, diving toward the canyon floor at hundreds of miles per hour. We were so dumb stuck that I barely got the camera to my eye and snapped a photo before he completely disappeared from sight. Wow! It was like Goose and Maverick had just dropped in to show us what they could do when the situation called for it. Incredible!

But of course that wasn't the most memorable thing that happened today. No, the day wasn't over yet! Turns out, the most memorable thing that happened today was our discovery of the Wine Ridge RV park right here in Pahrump. In addition to having a downright fabulous RV park, these folks have their own winery and make their own wine. They also run a five star restaurant right on the premises which, fortunately for us, we were able to secure a couple of reservations for and have an absolutely wonderful dinner complete with some of their cabernet and homemade bread pudding. Just the perfect ending to a perfect day.

Day One of our East Coast Odyssey

Getting ready to go on a lengthy cross country trip is something like trying to decide just what supplies you're going to need for your cabin in the wilds of Alaska for the next two months. Sure, unlike an Alaska wilderness trip, in a motor home you can just stop in the next handy town and pick up the pickles you forgot or score a loaf of fresh-baked bread. But that's where the differences end. If you need a flashlight to set up camp in the dark or a lug wrench to change a tire you better have brought those items along. As I always discover when I get ready to take one of these trips, the list of things "I better not forget" seems to grow daily. For instance, I carry no less than three fire extinguishers, one of which is reachable from either inside or outside the coach. I carry a wealth of repair items from silicon sealer to nuts, bolts, and screws.

I also carry a variety of digging tools. A couple of years ago when the coach "walked" out of its right front tire when we pulled to the shoulder of the interstate in Minneapolis, had I not had a shovel to dig a hole for the jack to get low enough to lift the front axle we might be there still. I have a set of those cute little orange triangles which you set up behind the coach when you're broken down to keep folks from plowing into you. Those also came in handy during the Minneapolis disaster. I have a bunch of "picnic" accessories including plastic table cloth, spring clamps to hold the table cloth, bug repellents, lantern for after dark picnic table chats or game playing, two different barbecue grill sets for setting up where all they give you is an old truck wheel to hold your coals, mesh covers to keep the bugs off food, and so on. We carry a variety of drive-up ramps to elevate some part of the coach as well as spare pieces of wood if more elevation is needed. We also carry folding table and chairs should none be provided at a given camp site. Naturally I have all manner of tools to fix minor breakage of things including a cordless drill driver.

I'd really like to carry a heavy duty jack of some sort so I could change my own tire if absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, I just don't have room for a jack big enough to lift this heavy dude. So, I'll just have to rely on the roadside assistance guys that we pay for. If you sign up for such a service make sure they will handle motor homes which is not always the case for your standard AAA card or similar. I also carry a six-foot ladder should I ever want to climb up and release the awning. So far I haven't used it since I have not so far encountered a time when I wanted the awning extended. The thing is so old now I suspect if I pulled it down it would fall to pieces. Still, the ladder comes along just in case. I could go on but I'm probably boring you. The main point, for me at least, is to try and anticipate every possible travel requirement. When Concetta says she needs a jar of jam, a coffee scoop, or a band aid I want to be able to open a locker and pull it out. Today, day one of our east coast odyssey, we rolled out of Carson City just before 10:00 and headed south along the familiar highway 395 which cuts through Nevada just a half mile

from our house. We didn't hurry. Most times I keep the speedometer at 55 or 60 and just take it easy. I had hoped that we would have sunny skies for our first day of traveling but it was not to be. The skies looked leaden and I found myself hoping that the gray clouds weren't hiding any snow that we might encounter somewhere in the high mountain passes. Still, it was beautiful. Everywhere we looked the Sierra Nevada was covered with snow from the recent storms and even the lowest peaks were snow-covered all day as we wended our way south through Minden, Gardnerville, Bridgeport, Lee Vining, Bishop, Big Pine, Independence, and Lone Pine. We stopped for lunch in the picturesque town of Bridgeport, but for the most part we just cruised, listened to our book on tape by Steven White, and just enjoyed the scenery. We got into our camp at Boulder Creek just south of Lone Pine about 4:00 p.m. after stopping for gas just north of Lone Pine and topping up the tank which was just over half full still. Our plan tomorrow is to travel a bit further down Highway 395 to Olancha where we'll turn left onto California 190 which will take us through the center of Death Valley. Our goal, at some point, is to reach Nevada highway 95, which will take us south to Las Vegas.

All too soon it's home again.

We're home! The run from Ely today was just a milk run. We broke camp at 7:00 a.m. (it would have been sooner but I got into an RV discussion with the camper next door) and, after a quick stop for petrol, headed for the wilds of the Great Basin and that storied "Loneliest Road in America."

First thing we did was plug in our very last book on tape and sit back for twelve disks full of what appeared to be a very well written murder mystery. Alas it was not to be as the disks had been poorly recorded and spent much time bleeping out every third word or so. Disappointed, we popped in some of our Italian music and just enjoyed the scenery, each other, and, thanks to the Italian tunes, much thoughts of past trips to Italy

Today was one of the finest trips across central Nevada that we can remember. The sky was so blue that it hurt your eyes even with sun glasses. Here and there wild horses roamed close to the highway. The road was so sparsely traveled today that it was an unusual occasion when someone passed us -- well except for the chap in the jeep 4x4 who was going so slow that we had to pass HIM, and that on a hill no less. We figured he was probably a geologist and was trying to memorize the road-cut strata as he drove.

One thing about Nevada, if you like geology it's all there to see. I don't think it's quite as interesting as what we so recently enjoyed on the Colorado Plateau, but with the sparse vegetation, you don't have any trouble finding it.

We didn't do much stopping today so I don't have many photos. However, at lunchtime we stopped at the Rock Creek Butterfield Stagecoach station and I snapped the accompanying photos. Of course there's not much left of the stations but low walls of igneous rock. Any wood that might have been found has long ago been burned up in one wild fire or another.

Not being content with just surveying the surrounding sagebrush-covered playa from the safety of the pull-out. I scooted under the barbed wire and went in search of something to photograph. Interestingly enough, I ran across a lone stone wall that ran for perhaps a hundred feet north to south and didn't appear to have any usefulness at all. Now I know that in times past nearby ranchers would mine the old stations for rock, so maybe the wall had once been an enclosure, but it certainly was odd to see it sitting there at least three or four hundred feet north of the Butterfield Station.

I scanned the hills surrounding the stage station. Wow! How I would love to climb those rugged hills and peer from behind a boulder while pretending to be some lone native American keeping watch on the stage company's employees. It looked to me that the strategic position was definitely those hills and maybe, just maybe, those station keepers had to keep a sharp eye on them as well.

After stopping at the Carson post office and newspaper office to pick up our accumulated mail and papers, we dropped by the local RV park and pumped the holding tanks for the final time. I'm getting so good at this routine that in less than ten minutes we were on our way again.

We arrived home about 2:30 p.m. and set about unpacking all the goodies in the RV before we ran totally out of energy. Tomorrow, we'll finish up the rest and then the only thing left to do is find the fiberglass expert who's been recommended to us so I can see about fixing the damage that some unfriendly cottonwood tree in Sedona inflicted on the upper left corner of the cabover when I innocently passed by just minding my own business.

So, that's all for now. We're not totally sure how soon we'll hitting the road again because there's a million things to do at the ol' homestead this summer. And, come fall, we're probably going to be called back to work for the legislature for six or eight months during the upcoming session. Still, I can tell you where my thoughts are going to be: out there on the open road. So ultimately, we'll be right back here with more adventures. So stay tuned.

Bye, y'all.

Zion and the Steptoe Valley

Kanab, Utah, turned out to be a very pleasant place to park for the night. Nothing special, but a very quiet, well ordered park with well mannered neighbors. The space was easy to back into. The utilities easy were easy to access. And we were parked far enough away from the main highway where we didn't hear much in the way of traffic noise all night. With yet another day dawning clear and bright on the high desert, we pulled up stakes on Wednesday morning and headed north and west toward home. Pausing only to grab a bit of grocery shopping we were soon rolling out of town. We thought we would probably be able to reach Ely, Nevada, by nightfall. That's what we thought.

As is turned out, we made it all the way from Kanab, Utah, to Springdale, Utah on the west side of Zion National Park, a distance of perhaps sixty, maybe seventy miles.

Now that's nowhere near the fewest miles we've every traveled in one day. That distinction goes to a tent-camping vacation a couple of decades ago when we traveled exactly fourteen miles up the California coast in an eight hour period. Still it was somewhat surprising when I sat down this evening to bring this blog up to date and discovered how little miles we'd traveled yesterday.

Maybe you can guess the reason. If not, I'll tell you. It was due to the absolute jaw-dropping magnificence of Zion National Park. Neither one of us had ever been to Zion and the place just completely mesmerized us. Between our constant stopping to take photos and the time we spent at the visitor center and park museum, we simply exhausted our entire travel day. Discretion always being the better part of valor, we soon decided that the RV park in Springdale and a cocktail as the sun went down was just what the travel Gods had in mind.

The RV folks gave us a site right down by the Virgin River where we could hear the water cascading by as we went about our camp duties. The site was largely level and dry and in short minutes we were all set up and enjoying our vodka and cranberry juice "picker-upper" in our lounge chairs. In the background, above the river, the jagged sedimentary cliffs of Zion glowed with the rosy hew of a setting sun. We've never before seen such expressive geology as we encountered in Zion. The towering rocks stuck us as so ancient and humbling that we were moved to seek out a book on the park's geologic history.

This morning, our flirtation with Zion over (if it could ever be over) we once again loaded our gear into the trusty Ford and headed for the open highway. Our goal today (as it had been the day before) was to reach Ely, Nevada, on Highway 50. I sort of guestimated that it would be an easy run and it certainly turned out just so. Traffic was extremely light as we powered up Interstate 15 toward Cedar City. We didn't plan on stopping anywhere and hitting Ely by early afternoon appeared to be a cinch. Appeared to be.

Of course, we hadn't reckoned on running across an attraction in Cedar City called the "Frontier Homestead State Park Museum." Now, if you've been following these on the road tales for any time at all you know that our Tioga almost never passes anything with museum in the name. This time was no exception. Almost before we knew it we were jockeying the motor home into the parking lot and presenting ourselves at the entrance counter. We were about to have our day improved about 200%.

Seeing that we were about the only patrons present, a docent immediately volunteered to take us under his wing and give us about a ninety-minute guided tour of the facility. We looked at each and every exhibit, from wonderful photography, to fabulously-restored wheeled vehicles, from a fully-stocked print shop, to an authentic sheep-sheering facility, from an early-day school house, to an extensive children's hands-on exhibit, from sample weaving, to early and exotic firearms. Gee Wiz, I was in complete heaven. There was lots and lots more, but you get the idea. My favorite exhibits were the wheeled vehicles, especially an authentic "mud wagon," a sort of stripped down stage coach, that was completely restored.

As you might guess, we spent so much time in Cedar City that we were significantly behind schedule by the time we left. In fact, shortly after we left we came across a roadside rest and pulled in for our lunch. Once lunch was finished, it was perhaps 1:30 p.m. and once again we hadn't gone very far since breaking camp that morning. However this time we decided that we were simply going to make Ely or else. So we put the pedal to the metal and our eyes on the road ahead and by 5:30 p.m. we had reached our goal and were pulling up to the KOA.

I have to tell you that if you're on the the road in this part of America you will find no lovelier place to camp than the KOA at the foot of the magnificent Steptoe Valley on Highway 50 near Ely. This Valley and its surrounding mountains are take your breath away beautiful.

Tomorrow we're on the road again, headed west on Highway 50, the self-proclaimed, "Loneliest Road in American." It's a long run to Carson City, at least long for us given our penchant for stopping at the drop of a hat and sampling the local color. We'll be getting up pretty early tomorrow and with any luck will be home by sundown. Not sure when we'll be back on the road again, but there has been some talk of upgrading the RV to something newer now that we're certain that we've become addicted to this RV lifestyle. We just want to say, thanks for coming along and we hope you have a chance to get out there and try this grand adventure for yourself.

Nothing grander than the Grand Canyon

You may remember that Concetta and I decided to move south as the snow seemed to be threatening. Reversing our northerly direction, we moved south from Sedona to Prescott where we hoped to avoid the worst of the weather. The next morning we awoke to a blanket of the white stuff which, fortunately, turned out to be largely melted by the time we broke camp and headed for downtown Prescott for a little museum touring.

Since the weather continued to look threatening we decided to head west, out into the desert regions. We headed south out of Prescott, then circled around, grabbed highway 93, and landed in Kingman (photo left) where the desert skies were oh so blue and the weather warm. Our intention was to continue heading west.

However, reader Richard suggested a visit to Seligman just down the road to the east. Since the weather was so beautiful that next morning after our arrival in Kingman, we decided to take Richard's advice and fudge our decision to move west. The plus was that we'd get to travel a section of old Route 66 in the bargain. So it was Richard's fault that we ended up spending two days at the Grand Canyon.

What? Yes, the weather continued to improve and once we reached Seligman we decided that maybe we'd just keep heading east. Before we knew it, we'd reached Williams, Arizona. At Williams you could easily see that snow had been a recent visitor. Still, the skies were blue, the mountains to the north looked inviting, and we threw caution to the wind and jumped on highway 64 north toward the Grand Canyon.

My initial plan was to just skirt the south end of the park and head over to Cameron. At Cameron we could head north into Utah. We were certain that without reservations there would be no way to find a place to put the RV. That belief came from the last time we visited the Grand Canyon, our very first vacation together back in 1976. When we drove up to the gate we were stopped by a ranger who asked us if we had reservations. When we said no, he told us that the park camping spaces were sold out and we'd have to camp outside the park.

This time the ranger didn't ask if we had reservations so we just rolled right on into the park and, with a modicum of difficulty, wandered around until we came across a state-run dry-camping site called Mather. Not expecting much success, we approached the check-in window and a very pleasant ranger with the appropriate name of Angel asked, "how many nights would you like to stay?"

Well, that was a surprise. We told her just one. But once we paid our very reasonable (being seniors with a senior National Park senior pass card) fee and headed toward our camp site we saw that there were lots and lots of empty camp spots for RVs and we probably wouldn't have a problem changing our minds if we so wanted.

Let me just say, if you're coming to the Grand Canyon, or have just been thinking about coming, don't put it off. Coming in the off season is your best bet. It's cold, yes. There's still lots and lots of people, yes. Reservations are still a good idea, yes. But the experience is one of the grandest adventures you'll ever have.

As you might guess, we decided on the spot to spend a second night in the park. On a whim, we decided to inquire at the full-hookups facility known as "Trailer Village." I didn't hold out much hope, but since we had headed out for a walk and ended up walking right by the aforementioned Village, we stopped in at the office and asked if they had a spot for the next night. As it turned out, they did and we grabbed it right on the spot.

"Trailer Village" is where we'd stay the next time we come. The dry camping part of the experience is nice for its woodsy character, but the water and sewer hookups are so nice we'd just forgo the woodsy character and choose Trailer Village. They even have barbecues set up for the campers.

The next day, our RV set up in "Trailer Village," we set out for one of the very best days we've ever spent in a national park. We went on a ranger walk to discuss geology. We explored the visitor center and book store. We rode the absolutely fantastic bus system to all areas of the park, getting out whenever we wanted to, and visited many of the overlook areas where the scenery will just knock your socks off.

We took tons of photos which, at one point, resulted in Mr. Klutz here coming out second best in a confrontation with an ancient juniper tree. I was tip-toeing around the edge of the canyon, getting as close as possible to the cliff, when I turned smack dab into a low-hanging branch. This resulted in the sharp edge of the branch slicing across my ear and instantly giving me the look of a pirate who came out second best in a sword fight.

For the rest of the morning I had to hold a thoroughly blood-soaked handkerchief to my ear while I dashed from rest room to rest room to launder the handkerchief. I'm sure anyone who walked by me found themselves wondering if a slasher was wandering the park. We even tried putting snow on the cut to stem the flow of blood which worked to an extent but certainly felt weird. By the afternoon my blood had finally clotted and I was able to just occasionally dab the cut. Ever since we started taking the 81mg aspirin daily, as seniors are recommended to do, my blood flows like, well, water whenever I cut myself.

As you might have guessed when no blog entries showed up for several days, we've been unable to find any working WiFi, either at the RV park in Kingman, nor at the two parks in Grand Canyon Park. This morning we're sitting at a very nice RV park in Knabe, Utah. When we exited Grand Canyon Park we drove highway 64 east to Cameron, Arizon, then turned north on Highway 89 toward Utah.

Wow! What a drive! Although Highway 89 is neat for all the great geology you get to see along the way, taking Highway 89A between Bitter Springs and Knabe was the genius stroke. This highway takes you along a geologic feature known as the "Crimson Cliffs." This ruggedly beautiful part of Arizona is just absolutely wonderful. It's like something out of a technicolor TV western. The highway is little traveled, so be prepared. But if you want to see raw western beauty, you have to drive this road.

Once you leave the desert on Highway 89A you begin a climb into the forest that abuts the northern rim of the Grand Canyon, facilities for which are closed this time of year. Still, the view of the desert below from the snaking highway is to die for. This section of road certainly begs a return trip someday when the northern rim is open.

So, here we are in Utah. We're not exactly sure in which direction we're headed (surprise, surprise), but we'll think of something. I'll try and add photos for this blog come nightfall. Right now I've got to turn this computer off and get about my chores. Until we meet again, as Rick Steves would say, keep on travelin'.

SNOW in the highlands of Prescott

Well, our efforts to avoid the impending snow storm by dropping south from Sedona to Prescott came to nothing. Most of the night we got pelted with rain and when the temperature dropped the rain turned to snow. We awakened this morning to a blanket of white as far as the eye could see. I wish I had taken a photo about five in the morning when I peeped out the rear window, but I preferred to stay huddled under the covers. By the time we did roust ourselves out around 7:00ish the snow in all but the shady sections was rapidly melting. When I had finished breakfast and ventured outside most of the snow had gone. Still, it was darn cold and my fingers were pretty frozen by the time I'd unhooked and stowed all the equipment for our departure.

Our chosen route, south on route 89, turned out to be a CLIMB into the mountains, over a pass, and then a curvy, narrow road towards Wickenburg. At some points I was piloting our rig at 20 to 25 miles an hour and wishing I could go even more slowly. Let me tell you, that road from Prescott to the desert flats near Wickenburg is not for the faint of heart, especially when the road is wet or snow-covered. The view from the road to the valley floor is even more stunning than the twisting drive along the Amalfi Coast in Italy.

For most of the rest of the day it rained off and on and never warmed up enough to make being outside pleasant. When we reached Highway 71 near Congress, Arizona, we jogged to the southwest, then caught route 93 north toward Kingman. Not that we had any reason to go to Kingman, but I decided that if the weather is going to continue to be nasty we might as well move toward our rendezvous in Mesquite where we have some ex-Carson City-ites who now live there we intend to visit.

The upshot of today's journey is that we didn't stop anywhere, see anything noteworthy, or venture out of the motor home for any reason. Hopefully, tomorrow we'll be able to do some exploring around Kingman if the weather warms up a bit. I heard from the KOA guy, Mark, here in Kingman that the next two days are supposed to be warmer. Richard has suggested Seligman on old Route 66 and that sounds like fun. Let's hope the weather cooperates.

It's Museum Day in Prescott, Arizona

Even though the sun barely peeked through the overcast today in downtown Prescott, we didn't care. We had booked an extra night here at the Point of Rocks RV camp in Prescott and today we had the whole day to fritter away on fun stuff. Unlike most people, fun stuff to the Happy Wanderers is most often comprised of antiques hunting, book store prowling, or historic museum wandering. Even though we ran across ample examples of the two former examples, today we intended to spend at least the first half of the day in the Sharlot Hall Museum just down the street from the court house in central Prescott.

Sharlot Hall was a giant in the annals of Arizona history. Here's a bit of her biography courtesy of the web site www.sharlot.org: "Sharlot Hall Museum is named after its founder, Sharlot Mabridth Hall (1870-1943), who became well known as a poet, activist, politician, and Arizona’s first territorial historian. Sharlot Hall was one of the West’s most remarkable women. As early as 1907, Ms. Hall saw the need to save Arizona's history and planned to develop a museum. She began to collect both Native American and pioneer material. In 1927, she began restoring the first Territorial Governor’s residence and offices and moved her extensive collection of artifacts and documents opening it as a museum in 1928."

Concetta and I thought that the museum in total was one of the finest we've yet visited. Everything from the John C. Fremont house, used when he was the (5th) territorial governor, to a frontier print shop, a vintage school house, and a log cabin used by the first territorial Governor, John Noble Goodwin. There's a new building for changing exhibits and comes complete with a very nice movie theater. There's a transportation museum where we got to see some wonderful examples of wooden wheeled bicycles, a stagecoach and other horse-drawn vehicles, as well as a 1920s-era Star automobile owned by Sharlot Hall. I was especially interested in the Star since my mom learned to drive in a Star back in the 1940s.

Also on the property was a very nice 19th century Victorian cottage once owned by one of the richest families in Arizona. The cottage now plays host to a very fine gift shop where you can buy anything from books on the history of the area to a myriad of handmade craft items

The docents at the museum proved to be some of the most knowledgeable and helpful we've encountered on our travels. In fact, they enthusiastically shepherded us from room to room, explaining each and every item on display and answering all of our questions.

Consequently, the morning hours flew by swiftly and before we knew it we'd run well past the lunch hour. Making our escape, we headed back for the RV, parked ever so patiently in a shopping mall parking lot about six blocks away. Then, while Concetta set up our lunch I dashed over to Albertson market and grabbed a few items for our pantry. Then, lunch over, we spent an hour or so driving some of the roads to the west of Prescott just to see the country. It's very, very pretty here and I suspect a tad more pleasant living here than at the lower elevations found in Phoenix and Tuscon. Prescott is just a little higher in elevation than our Carson City altitude of 4,700 feet. Prescott, as I learned today, lies at approximately 5,500 feet.

So now, we're kicking back, enjoying a cocktail, and catching up on the news of the day. Coach is all set up, showers are out of the way, and we're looking forward to dinner in about an hour. I discovered yesterday, at the suggestion of the camp host here at Point of Rocks, that I can pick up television signals in the RV if we have a wind-up antenna. Well, now, I always knew I had one of those, but since I hadn't really received any formal instructions from the previous owner about how to operate it, I'd been content to just ignore it. Of course, the camp host was rather surprised to hear I'd never tried using it and told me to just crank it up, connect the cable, tell the TV to run through the channel search routine, and presto, you're in business, she said.

Naturally, I doubted it would be that easy. But, hey, she was right. All last evening we watched TV via our rooftop antenna and the picture was just as crystal-clear as had we been connected to cable TV. Boy was I surprised. Now, all I have to do is remember to crank the dang thing down again before I drive anywhere.

Sedona, Jerome, and on to Prescott, Arizona

Well, you know what they say about best laid plans, sometimes they never come to fruition. This morning the Arizona weather girl seemed confident that snow was coming to the Arizona highlands. Places like Sedona where we were parked and, more importantly, Flagstaff, where we intended to camp next were definitely, she said, going to get some snow. Now we haven't minded the cooler temperatures we've encountered since we headed north from Carefree, but snow is a different story. I have no idea how this RV is going to react to the white stuff. So, deciding to be better safe than sorry, we turned west this morning out of Sedona instead of continuing north. Instead of Flagstaff we set our course for Prescott.

Right now we're having lunch on the museum grounds in the thriving town of Jerome, a stop which was recommended by a reader of this blog as being a place we shouldn't miss. Blog reader, Richard, was absolutely right. Jerome is charming and the museum here is outstanding. Jerome was a turn-of-the-century mining camp that largely followed the traditional boom and bust lifespan. We're used to that story in our home state of Nevada where gold and silver never seemed to last long enough for a community to become permanent.

In Jerome the miners were searching for copper. Starting with underground shafts, stopes, and galleries, the miners eventually transitioned to open pit mining in search of riches. At the height of the mining boom Jerome was home to some 15,000 people. Once the boom had ended the total population shrank to several hundred. Today, I think that the town sports a population of something like 500 folks.

As with most towns, mother nature exacted a heavy price on the town's residents before she gave up her riches. Fires routinely leveled dozens of houses and businesses. Mine accidents felled the town's sturdy miners. And the constant removing of the lower stratas of earth to recover ore sometimes caused whole sections of the town to simply fall into pits or, in some cases, toboggan down the hillside to end up a couple hundred feet from their original positions.

Concetta and I learned these fascination facts and more at the wonderful museum that sits below the town proper in a converted estate once belonging to one of the town's prominent residents. Everything from intricate models depicting all the underground workings of the various mines, to a fantastic rocks and minerals collection are housed in the museum. Of special interest to me was an outdoor display of rock crushing equipment. A steam-powered stamp mill was displayed right alongside a arrastre, a primitive ore reduction method comprising a circular, rock-lined pit in which broken ore is pulverized by stones, attached to horizontal bars. The bars are often attached to donkeys or mules who travel endlessly around the circle reducing the rock to powdery ore. I know from my reading as a child that the Spanish conquistadors of the fifteen and sixteen centuries used this same method of processing ore.

I asked the museum's ranger employees if they would advise me to try and pilot our thirty-foot RV through the tiny streets of Jerome so we could park somewhere and walk around. The museum is some distance downhill from the town. They told me that they wouldn't recommend me doing that. However I could park just outside the museum's gate and walk the mile or so up the mountain if we wanted to tour the town. Concetta and I elected not to take that on today since we spent much of yesterday doing exactly that same thing. So, for this time, we had to pass on the further adventures to be found in Jerome. We'd like to come back some day and visit again. We're sure that the effort would be amply rewarded.

Since we couldn't drive through town in order to continue on our way to Prescott, we elected to retrace some of our steps down the mountain, catch highway 260 that promised to intersect Highway 17 south of Sedona, and then catch Highway 169 that headed toward Prescott. It was a little bit out of our way, but the drive was wonderful. Along the way we found a market for stocking up our larder, a gas station to fill our tank, and navigate to the one and only RV camp on the outskirts of Prescott that promised full hookups.

So, here we are for the next two nights. Tomorrow we're going to leave camp and drive into downtown Prescott for a fun-filled day of walkabout. The camp hostess told us that there's a great museum in town, a Wally World for our essentials, and a great place to park near the center of town. What more could we want? So, until then, I'll say good night.

Sidewalking in Sedona

Today we set out on foot to explore Sedona, Arizona. Fortunately for us, our chosen RV camp site is just a half mile down the road from town. The morning skies looked dark and ominous as we set out and often scattered drops of rain fell on our straw-hatted heads. Only occasionally did the sun poke through the overcast as we walked, making for a pretty gloomy morning. Still, all the Sedona shops were so upbeat and brightly colored that you couldn't help by feel cheerful at all the sparkle and cleverly designed decor.

Most of the shops are pretty repetitious and it was easy to skip the Chinese-made trinkets in favor of the slightly more upscale shops selling some very nice art that we could in no way afford. I enjoyed the art galleries the most. Speaking as a person who was born with a modicum of photographic ability but came away with little or no talent when applying brush to canvas or clay to potter's wheel. Naturally, I have taken art classes in the past but never caught the spark. My paintings looked a lot like my efforts in the third grade. And trying to produce things like Terracotta pots on the spinning potter's wheel always ended in failure. Most times, I start with a vase and end up with something that resembled an ash tray. Might have been okay if I smoked.

We did have a bit of luck today. Friends whom we met at nephew Marc's house this week also planned to tour to Sedona when they left Carefree today. This was lucky for us since Concetta had forgotten her charging unit to her Kindle back at Marc's house. Our plans were to meet up and have lunch sometime at midday. At the time these plans were made I had envisioned the town of Sedona as much smaller than it actually turned out to be. As midday approached I began to be a tad apprehensive that we would never be able to zero in on the same location to make the transfer in an area that none of the participants were familiar with.

Wonder of wonders! Just before lunchtime we got a call and after a bit of filling each other in on our location based on surrounding buildings, it turned out that both couples were standing about 200 feet from each other. Amazing.

Property transfer out of the way, we learned that the couple, Gordon and Rita, intended to take to the back country and burn some calories. That didn't fit with my intention to ADD some calories to my diet. So, as easily as we had met, we parted company and Concetta and I crossed the street to the Oaxaca Mexican restaurant and proceeded to appreciate the grandeur of the surrounding sedimentary rocks through a large, plate glass window.

Now anyone who knows me knows that Mexican food is at the tail end of my preferred culinary interests. I never like the heavy feeling you leave the restaurant with. But in recent years I've been ordering the fish tacos and that seems to fit better with my desire to eat somewhat lighter. Of course, I couldn't pass up the sopapillas, which sounded just great. The last time we had sopapillas we thought were worth telling anyone about we were in Albuquerque and the year was 1976. Now the sopapillas today were still not as good as we'd had in Albuquerque, but they got close, which is reason enough to eat at Oaxaca if you ask me. By the way, the fish tacos were close to the best I've ever had and I heartily recommend them.

Lunch over, we began our leisurely walk back to the RV park accompanied by a light sprinkle of rain. Now and again when the rain would come down harder we'd duck into a handy art gallery or t-shirt shop and spend a few minutes. Eventually we came to the shopping area known as Tlaquepaque. Though I wasn't interested in the wares on sale there, the architecture was fascinating. Though I'm sure the center is not very old, the builders had endeavored to make it look otherwise. The whole center was laid out in narrow streets, alleys, and lanes and the shops were largely Spanish in style. Though the gray skies made photography difficult, I had a great time grabbing a shot here and there as the sun poked through and gave me a fleeting look at the rustic beauty of the place. Concetta consented, after a time, to rest on a nearby bench while I dashed here and there looking for the perfect shop. Not sure I got it but it was lots of fun trying.

After our foray at Tlaquepaque, we headed back to the RV in earnest. Thankfully it wasn't far for the rain seemed intent on getting us wet this time. Our day in Sedona had gone largely contrary to our immediate plans. It would have been interesting to try one of the many jeep tours, but with the skies threatening, the air less than balmy, and the wind blowing like it had somewhere very important to get to, we decided to curtail our exploration to the local city streets. Tomorrow I think we'll be headed up toward the grand canyon. Maybe we can catch some good weather and try a jeep tour up there. I think Sedona might be worth a return visit someday. We'd really like to get back away from the glitz of main street and see some of the countryside. Until then, we just have to be satisfied with our rainy walk today.

By the way, if you're coming here I definitely recommend reservations no matter what you're planning to do. We just barely found a spot in this RV park. Had we been just moments later all the spots would have been filled. Our friends (who delivered the charging device) told us that they had to stay in Flagstaff, about 25 miles away, as no rooms were available here at a reasonable price. This is a very popular place for the 20-something crowd and people who are interested in back country exploring. They rent 4x4 vehicles of several sorts here to the public and there are a dozen different back country jeep tour companies at your disposal. So, enough said. Come here and have a great time. You just need to plan ahead.

Being Carefree in, where else? Carefree, AZ

After leaving San Diego, we turned our trusty RV toward Arizona. The first night we only drove as far as El Centro, California, where we found a perfectly delightful RV park snuggled in alongside a golf course, itself lying next to a small lake. Since we were about the only transient folks in the park, we saw only a handful of others. The rest had evidently pulled up stakes and headed for cooler climes.

When we left El Centro the next morning we headed slightly east then north toward Quartzite, Arizona, a place we came to realize was a favorite of the off-road crowd who were camped everywhere dunes were to be found. Every passing truck or motor home was pulling a trailer full of "toys" and every distant dune top contained some sort of off road vehicle.

Carefree is located near Scotsdale, though a little higher in elevation and further away from the population center. Marc has just this past month managed to pull off a major coup and purchase a 4-bedroom, 4-bath house in a wonderful neighborhood full of slump stone, ranch-style haciendas, an incredible galaxy of native plants, and carefully yet rustically manicured yards. The temperature while we were there was just as close to perfect as one may find on planet earth, with cool nights and warmish days that just beg you to talk a walk and pick out your future home away from home.

Of course, the Scotsdale environs are only heaven on earth for seven or eight months of the year. After that, it gets blast furnace hot and defies you to venture forth from the confines of your air conditioned quarters. But that's why God created snowbirds. Still, if you wanted a place to escape the unpredictable winters in northern climes you could do no better than to dash right down to Carefree, Arizona, and plant your flag in the front yard of some house with a "for sale" sign and go find the realtor to arrange the sale.

Marc and Nancy, Concetta's nephew and his wife, are in Arizona because Nancy was transferred by her company to the Scotsdale office. Marc, an electrician, is probably going to find ample work since he's so close to urban Phoenix. I suspect that Marc is going to have all the work he can handle once he gets established.

So, for the past couple of days we've been vegging at Marc and Nancy's house, just kicking back, enjoying adult refreshments, and watching a veritable marathon of American Pickers on the tube. Mark gave us a wonderful tour yesterday of downtown Carefree, which, to some extent, has suffered just as much as everywhere else as far as business closings go. Still, we were just very impressed with the little town for its upscale shops, streets free of litter, and remarkable absence of graffiti.


This morning, after a large helping of Mark's famous oatmeal, a terrific slice of home-grown grapefruit courtesy the neighbor across the street, and some downright unforgettable freshly-ground coffee, we unplugged our lifeline from Marc's garage, took the RV off the blocks, and headed down the hill in the direction of the Carefree highway (don't you just love saying that?). After filling the tanks, both gasoline and propane, we set out to find Highway 17 which runs toward Flagstaff.

For most of the early part of the day we just cruised and listened to our David Baldacci murder mystery on the CD player. The closer we got to northern Arizona the redder the dirt became. A few miles south of Flagstaff we caught sight of references to Sedona. Since neither one of us had every been to Sedona we took the off-ramp and began our trek up Highway 179 in search of our quarry.

Wow! We knew Sedona was popular, but we were unprepared for the quantity of fellow vacationers we encountered. Fortunately, we arrived at our AAA-recommended camp site and managed to get a two-day gig. The chap standing just behind me was only able to get a one-day spot. That's how busy this place is.

Tomorrow we'll be seeing just what sights we can take in up the road in town. Hopefully, we'll find some place to experience Sedona without having to climb over other globe trekkers to do it.

Now for the bad news: while maneuvering the rig into position in our camp tonight I "kissed" the cab-over into a inconveniently-located tree limb and crunched the fiberglass. I suspect it's going to take someone very talented to fix it but hopefully if we don't get any downpours I can keep the coach weather tight with some strategically-placed plastic and tape.

Still, you know what they say, no pain no gain. We've already experienced some wear and tear on the coach in the form of a fractured rooftop fridge cover up in Montana last fall. I know I'm going to occasionally bang this truck up a bit since it's so damn long, but anything is fixable with enough time, talent, and money and we'll just have to tough it out and get it fixed when we get home. It's either that, or we can drive it up to the Dakotas and find a oil rig worker who desperately needs a place to live, sell it him, and then fly home. The thought crossed my mind.

Anyway, that's all for now. Take care and don't let the bangs and scrapes of life keep you off the highways. Go out and do it...NOW!





Wow!