Day Seven - Kanab, Utah to Grand Canyon, Arizona

Day seven of our adventure found us in Kanab, Utah, and headed for the Phoenix area. Since we couldn't get there in one day we just HAD to feed our Grand Canyon addiction by stopping on the south rim for the night. Initially we thought that no one would be visiting the Canyon this early in the season since temps were still ranging below freezing there at night. But just in case, while still in Kanab, we took the extra step of calling ahead to "Trailer Village" to see if we needed a reservation. Good thinking! When I got the reservation clerk on the line he told me that it was a good thing we called since there was only ONE spot left. Good grief! "Yes," I said. "We'll take it." Of course there was probably more room in the primitive camping area if it had come to that, which is much prettier but lacks water, sewer, and electricity. Arriving in camp around 2:00 p.m. I hurriedly got the RV on the ramps to level it and then we dashed off to see what we could see of the canyon in the afternoon light. I'll probably put more of the photos on Facebook, but here's one of Concetta and me on the south rim. I stopped a couple of Japanese students to take the shot and gave them an "Arigatou" when they handed the camera back. They got a big kick out of that and insisted through hand motions that we reciprocate and take their photo, too. Having had a Japanese roommate at one time I knew what to say. What they said in response went over my head, but oh well.

The best thing about visiting the Grand Canyon, other than the awesome magnificence of the geology, is the way the park has worked hard to cater to the visitor. Buses circulate throughout the entire south rim area and you can catch a ride to wherever you'd like to go and you won't have to wait more than 15 minutes for the next bus to stop. The next best thing about the park is the visitors themselves. They literally come from everywhere around world, from the far east to the Mediterranean countries; from the Scandinavian countries to South American countries.

After walking all afternoon along the south rim we arrived at the Geology Museum where I purchased yet another book on natural vegetation. I've been trying to find a way to identify the "weeds" along the roadside as we take our walks or do a roadside stop with the motorhome. On this trip I finally learned what a "Creosote Bush" looks like since there were so many in the Valley of Fire. But still there's lots of other plants that I don't know. Most of the books seem prone to identify the prettiest plants but the "uglier" plants go undiscussed. I have found a couple of books on native plants and how they were used by the native Americans, which is pretty fascinating.

We got back to the RV just about dark, but since I didn't have to set up the water and sewer due to the impending, overnight freezing conditions, my work for the day was done. The next morning it was so cold I had to set up the sewer line to be pumped and washed out then dash back inside to warm up a bit. Then I'd go back out for a few more minutes of work. The temperature gauge in the front locker was registering 35.7 degrees, which meant in the outside air it was probably at least five degree colder than that.

At left, by the way, is a Creosote Bush which grow in profusion all over the southwest.

Here's some info on the Creosote Bush: "Creosote bush (Larrea tridentata), sometimes called greasewood, is a large shrub found in most of Arizona’s counties. Creosote bush grows at elevations of 5,000 feet or lower and occupies thousands of square miles of Arizona’s Sonoran desert. It is also common in the Mohave Desert in California, Nevada, and southern Utah as well as the Chihuahuan Desert of New Mexico, west Texas, and Mexico. Locally, creosote bush grows on valley bottoms and benches in and around the Verde Valley." This website will elaborate: http://ag.arizona.edu/yavapai/anr/hort/byg/archive/creosote.html

Day Six - Mesquite, Nevada to Kanab, Utah

Day six found us driving north out of Mesquite into Utah before dropping south toward Kanab. Not much to see on Interstate 15, but once past St. George, and we exited onto Utah route 59, we came across the most wonderful setting for our noontime lunch break. Nestled on the edge of a resident's property in the town of Tocquerville, we found this cute little log cabin. Though no one was around to ask, if I had to guess I'd have to say that the cabin is an earlier rendition of the family's larger house. You can see that it's made of traditional hand hewn logs with the corners squared off to mesh with the log on the adjacent wall.

Day Five - Valley of Fire to Mesquite

On day five we didn't connect with the the RV park that we had intended. It wasn't really our fault. When we called the woman at the park she said she couldn't give us GPS coordinates because we'd end up in the wrong place. Well, the verbal directions she gave us sent us off in the wrong direction which, ultimately, caused us to stumble over the RV parking lot for a local casino called the Casa Blanca. Since I was in no mood to try and sort out this puzzle, we just went ahead and registered at the Casa Blanca, which turned out to be affordable. Only thing was, the RV parking area had no WiFi. They invited us to come hang out in the Casino lounge and use the free WiFi there, but we declined. We found out later that the original RV park was really nice, and much more upscale than where we ended up, and probably would have had WiFi in every palm tree. But sometimes it's just a whole lot easier to not try and swim upstream when the Fates are insistent on having their way.

So, it turned out that the lack of WiFi didn't matter much anyway because our friends, Frank and Patti Adams, who live in Mesquite, volunteered to take us to lunch at a local golf course as well as treat us to a backyard barbecue dinner at their place (this is the view from their patio). I was able to upload the previous two days events while at their house, but didn't end up with sufficient time to actually write anything about the day's events since our party lasted into the late evening.

Before arriving at Mesquite Concetta and I did take time to visit the Lost City Museum in Overton, Nevada, and spent a wonderful couple of hours visiting with the ghosts of ancient Puebloan Indians. We saw some really fantastic basketry, pottery, and other related everyday items from local tribes.

The photo at left is the Lost City Museum near Overton. I had never visited the museum before, but the last time Concetta was there, which was about 40 years ago or more, it was a tiny, two room affair. Now, they have a new building of about 2000 square feet and some expertly done displays of native American basketry, weaving, and other antiquities. I was very impressed with their efforts and recommend a visit when next you're in the area.

Day four – the Valley of Fire Visitor Center

Did you know that there are 300,000,000 bugs on planet earth for every one of us humans? Neither did I. Concetta and I learned that bit of trivia when we hiked to the Valley of Fire Visitor Center this morning after breakfast. I say “hiked” because the Center isn’t located here where our RV is parked. No, it’s about three miles from here by a narrow, two-lane road, flanked by millions of acres of desert.

When we first decided to stay here at the “Atlatl” campsite, we thought the Visitor Center WAS here. But that turned out to not be true. Yesterday, when we strolled to the far end of our camping area to see the native America pictographs, I caught sight of a park ranger in the pictograph parking area and dashed over to ask him. “Can you tell me how far away the Visitor Center is,” I asked. “Sure,” he said. “I’d say a couple of miles or so.” “Ah,” I said. “Is it okay to walk there?” He looked at me for a long moment and said, “Nobody really ever does that.” I told him thanks a lot and stepped back from his truck so he could continue on with his ranger duties. Guess we’ll be the first, I thought.

So it was that right after breakfast this morning, while the air was still long-sleeves cool and a gentle breeze was wafting over the desert playa, Concetta and I set off with our tiny backpack full of water bottles and energy bars to see if we might get to the Center and back before any afternoon heat might set in.

As it turned out, I started doubting our sanity about twenty minutes into the hike. As we left the confines of the camping area, reached the highway and kept walking, we rounded a bend in the road and discovered that the whole valley dropped away to the east so that we could see EVERY sign of civilization that could be seen from that vantage point. Trouble was there were no signs of civilization. Just a yellow-striped ribbon of asphalt that meandered listlessly in the brilliant morning sun, here and there disappearing from sight as it dipped into arroyos and climbed back out again, clear to the horizon. Occasionally a tiny automobile could be seen moving toward us, serving as some indication that life other than the two of us could be found out there among the creosote bushes and low-growing sage.

“Come on,” Concetta said. “We can make it.” “Make it where?” I asked. “I don’t see a Visitor Center anywhere.” “Has to be out there,” she said. “The ranger told you two miles.” And so we continued hiking. I found myself hoping that the ranger wasn’t someone they had just hired the previous week.

As fate would have it, we had hiked about a mile or more when we started seeing cars leave the main road and venture toward the sandstone cliffs on the north side of the valley. We couldn’t see any structures, but the distance from us to the turnout seemed to be about a mile and so lent some credence to the ranger’s sense of distance. “I bet that’s the turnoff to the Visitor Center,” I told Concetta.

And so it turned out to be. Before we had even walked that last mile, we saw the sandstone-colored building nestled close against the sandstone cliffs. It blended so well with the environment that you just knew that was the architect’s intent. Our only surprise at that point was the sign at the base of the visitor center driveway. “Visitor Center,” it said. “One half mile.” That bit of information added to my suspicion that, counting the walk to the main highway from our camp, and the walk from the main highway to the Center, the total walking distance was closer to three miles than two.

One of the first things we did at the Visitor Center was watch a video on the bugs of planet Earth. That’s where I learned the 300,000,000-to-one bit of etymological trivia. And that’s where I was momentarily catapulted back to my childhood. Let me explain. When I was a kid my dad raised horses. He and mom had, at one time, been horse-riding people. Once my brother and I arrived on the scene, their horse riding days were largely over. But Dad still kept them around for quite some time after that. My big complaint about the horses in those days was the fact that they always took precedence over the humans. No matter where we were, and how much fun we might be having, at some mid-afternoon hour Dad would rise and say, “Well, it’s time to start home so I can feed the horses.” I wasn’t very old when I vowed that I would NEVER own any pets of any kind who would control my life the way the horses controlled Dad’s.

Today, while Concetta and I were sitting in the movie theater watching a myriad of termites building a structure equivalent to a human structure two miles high, a youngster about seven years old ventured into the auditorium and dropped down in a seat. He had only sat there for perhaps two minutes, obviously lost in the sights and sounds of the bug world, when in marched “Dad” who said to junior, “Come on, the dog’s in the car.” With the greatest reluctance and several backward glances at the screen, junior finally rose and exited. Wow! I thought. There’s my childhood in microcosm. Did that insensitive dad have any realization of what he’d just done? I doubt it. Had he just thwarted what might have been the child’s only exposure to that particular fascinating topic? Possibly. Had I just witnessed a parent who didn’t have clue what was important in this world. Emphatically! A pox on that guy.

I expected the three mile return trip under the noonday sun to be just this side of exhausting, what with the tired feet and the increased temperature. But in reality I had more fun coming back than I did going out. I spent my time (when we weren’t dogging cars) looking for prime examples of the various rock types in the valley that were big enough to be representative but small enough to carry around in a pocket. That combined with photographing the various indigenous plants kept me occupied the whole walk back.

Only one event begs inclusion here that I haven’t mentioned, and it happened on BOTH legs of our journey. Much as I related a couple of days ago when the military jet flew by us at eye level as we enjoyed the view from the rim of Death Valley, today we belatedly looked up just in time to see a glaringly chartreuse Lamborghini go rumbling by us as looking so out of place that we might have been imagining it. Then, as we trekked back up the desert highway in the opposite direction that same Lamborghini sailed past again. We couldn’t have been more surprised if Marty McFly’s Delorean had dropped out of the sky and stopped to ask us for directions.

Now, back at our wonderful bastion of serenity and cool air (it’s only 77 in the coach right now with the windows open), Concetta is out on the lanai reading and I’m, well, you know what I’m doing. Until next time, keep on traveling!

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'.