No Media For Me On Inauguration Weekend - 2017
During the recent presidential inauguration, I planned to get as far away as possible from all broadcast and online media sources. After reviewing my old blog articles, I decided that the Hole in Wall Campground in the Mojave National Preserve was the place to go. In the lower elevations of the campground, my mobile telephone might access a cell tower somewhere near Needles, California.
At the upper reaches, terrestrial signals are weak, with only AM radio
and an occasional text message transiting through the ether.
As it happened, my winter camping trip to the desert was epic. In my coach, I had vintage wines,
great food and forced-air, propane heating at my fingertips. My
electrical power emanated from two 6-volt “golf cart batteries”.
Combined, they offered 12-volts of power to my lights and appliances.
The system allowed for “deep cycle” usage and quick recovery during
recharge. In the campground, as the temperature dipped below
40-degrees, I set the thermostat as high as 71-degrees. As it converts
from a liquid to a gaseous state, propane expands by a factor of 270.
Even with extensive burning, my ten gallons of propane would suffice for
several nights of warmth. As the night progressed, I could have worn
shorts and t-shirt inside.
Overnight, I set the temperature at a comfortable 60-degrees. As I slept
in luxury, the furnace cycled five or six more times. When I awoke the
next morning, it was raining. I pushed a button on the control panel
and the electric-powered awning extended fully over the outside 
door of my coach. After sprinting through a light shower, I retrieved my old Honda EX1000 generator
from the bed of my pickup truck. After pouring what we euphemistically
call “gasoline” into its integral tank, I prepared to pull the recoil
starter.
Over the past decade, the ethanol, or corn alcohol in our domestic fuel
supply had twice clogged up the carburetor. Contemporary generators and
automobiles have a pressurized fuel system that seals itself from
leaks when not in use. My old Honda generator relied on gravity to feed
the carburetor, thus there was no automatic shutoff of the fuel
supply. As long as there was fuel in the tank, any change in barometric
pressure would expand or contract the air in the fuel tank, thus
sending a few drops of fuel into the carburetor.
The medical community entreats us not to eat or drink foods that contain corn syrup. Science 
proved
long ago that corn syrup would clog our arteries and lead to diabetes
and incipient heart failure. As with corn syrup in the human body, so
it is with “corn fuel”
in an engine designed for real gasoline. By leaving a small amount of
gas in the tank during storage, I had twice gummed-up the carburetor.
Each time, the engine failed to start, requiring a costly rebuild. In
my case, it took two such episodes to determine that the gas tank on my
EX1000 must be empty when placed into storage. By now, it had been more
than two years since I had run the generator.
Since my EX1000 uses a conventional carburetor, it needs to be “choked”
in order to fire-up and start running. For those who have lived only in
the “fuel injection era”,
choking means physically limiting the air supply to the engine in
order to increase the fuel-to-air ratio. Upon startup, it gives you
more “bang for the buck”, as they used to say. After achieving “lift
off”, so to speak, one can open the choke incrementally. Once the oil
in the crankcase warms up, fully opening the choke allows the engine to
run efficiently.
I
looked down at the choke-slider from above and behind the unit. From
that odd angle, the hieroglyphics indicating that the choke was “open”
or “closed” made no sense. After erroneously sliding it to the
full-open position, I proceeded to pull on the recoil starter twenty or
thirty times, with no success. By then, water was puddling four-inches
deep beneath the aft-end of the coach and rain was whipping in my face.
Enough was enough. I shoved the EX1000 under the coach and went inside
to dry off.
The LED indicators in my coach showed that my “house batteries”
were down to one-third of their normal power. Despite having to brave
intermittent rain showers, I would dash out every couple of hours and
run the engine on my Titan truck.
Through an attached cable, the alternator on the Titan’s V-8 engine
recharged my coach batteries. By nightfall, it was pouring rain, but the
batteries recovered to two-thirds power. Feeling better about my power
supply, I went inside, 
planning to stay there until sunup.
When I sat down at the dinette, the seat of my pants felt wet and cold.
In my haste to run the truck engine, I had left my shirttail hanging
out of my two-piece rain suit. The shirttail was soaked and so was I.
In order to warm up, I had to remove all of my wet clothes and replace
them with dry apparel. In the desert cold, one can rapidly succumb to
hypothermia. Since I was still on limited battery power, I did not
raise the thermostat for warmth. Instead, I relied on my own metabolism
to warm my clothes and me. When I sat back down, even the cushions of
the dinette were damp. Would my bouts with the cold and the wet ever
end?
After
dark, it became colder still, so I wore three layers on my torso and
pajamas beneath my jeans. On my feet were two pairs of socks and warm
slippers. In order to save battery power, I used portable lights and
even kept the radio off. Television was not an option. Normally I stay
up until at least midnight, but it was so cold and dismal that I went
to bed around 10 PM. Soon after getting in bed, I spilled a small
portion of white wine on the bed sheets. In order to stay dry, I had to
leave my previously warm spot and resettle on the opposite side of the
bed.
As I lay listening to the rain and wind, the only other sound was the
blower on the furnace, which was cycling on and off. Each time the
furnace relighted, I would turn it down a degree or two, hoping to
conserve battery power. By midnight, I had turned it down to about
52-degrees. Two days later, I discovered an air-gap where the slide-out
meets the chassis of the coach. That small air gap had the same effect
as leaving a door ajar. With the high winds that night, it felt like a
fan was blowing cold air into the coach.
As
I slept fitfully, the wind and the rain battered the outside of my
coach. After the weather front passed through at 1 AM, the wind began
gusting to over forty miles per hour. During previous camping trips, I
had always put a “four-by-four” piece of wood under each of the
leveling glides on the coach. Since the motorized leveling system on my
current coach is so easy to use, I had become complacent. Instead of
placing a solid piece of wood beneath each glide, I had lowered them
directly on to the wet desert sand.
The “full-room slide out”
was fully extended, thus cantilevering a lot of weight over the open
desert. As the winds picked up, the coach would heal like a sailboat under sail.
In reality, the coach did not move much, but it felt unstable and
ready to blow over. My lucky stroke was that the pickup truck was
upwind, helping break some of the wind forces. Also, the aerodynamic 
front end of the coach faced into the wind.
Whether it is our voting choices or our camping practices, sometimes we humans act against our self-interest.
If I had not been obsessed with saving battery power, I would have
used the motorized system to retract the slide-out into the coach.
Rocking in my unstable cradle that night, I recalled that if the house
batteries dipped below 11.5-volts, the hardwired carbon monoxide alarm
would start wailing. Worse yet, the alarm would not stop until the
batteries were sufficiently recharged. By the time I remembered that,
it was freezing outside, so I did not venture out and run the truck
engine.
The potential for a wailing alarm was more powerful than my fear that
the coach would overturn, so I left the slide-out extended. With
four-inches of water pooled beneath the rear leveling glides, that was
not a wise idea. In the end, everything stayed upright. Still, for the
better part of three hours, it felt like I was inside the tornado from
The Wizard of Oz. After 3 
AM, the furnace stopped cycling and the wind gusts seemed to abate, or maybe I passed out, with a pillow over my head.
When I awoke, the sun shown above the low horizon to the east. As its
rays struck the back window of the coach, the air inside slowly rose
toward 55-degrees. Although the warming trend was encouraging, in order
to feel comfortable, I needed more heat. Then, I remembered that a
group of campers had spent the night in tents, down at the windiest,
coldest part of the campground. How were they feeling that frigid
morning, I wondered? After dressing as warmly as I could, I stepped out
and walked toward my truck.
On a whim, I dragged the old Honda EX1000 generator out from beneath the
coach, “choked it” and then pulled the rope. It fired-up on the first
pull. The EX1000 employs some old technology, including what amounts to
a small motorcycle engine mated to a 1000-watt 
generator. Even when warm, it emits pollutants far above a current-generation “CARB Compliant”
generator. With gloved hands, I plugged the power cord from the coach
into the 120-volt electrical receptacle on the generator. Within
40-minutes, the coach was warm and toasty and the batteries registered
two-thirds full. The price I paid for old technology that morning was to
inhale exhaust gasses at my otherwise pristine desert campsite.
In order to avoid the exhaust, I explored the bounds of my rustic
campsite, including the bed of my pickup truck. There, in a crate that
carried my unused four-by-fours was half an inch of solid ice. Since my
indoor/outdoor thermometer went missing, I can only assume that it got
down to about 25-degrees overnight. Still, as the sun rose and the
wind abated, the air warmed to about 45-degrees. Upon further
inspection, my trailer tires were showing unusual wear, so I needed to
buy new ones before returning home.
After
two eventful nights at my desert camp, I headed for Needles, about
fifty miles away. On my first trip to the Hole in the Wall Campground,
eleven years ago, I had experienced a slow leak in one of my tires.
After pumping it up above normal pressure, I hoped to get fifty-miles
of travel before it deflated. Then, I had the choice of traveling
cross-country on dirt roads to the town of Baker or heading to Needles
and purchase new tires there. Good sense prevailed, so I had navigated
paved roads and Interstate I-40 to Desert View Mobil, located on the old
Needles Highway. Back then, I assumed that buying trailer tires in the
desert would be akin to throwing money down a rat hole. Were they not
just waiting for a desperate soul like me to fall into their money
trap?
As it occurred, that first visit and twice since, the people at Desert
View Mobil have treated me to free refreshments while I waited for a
refit with new tires on each successive rig. Having bought three sets
of tires at Desert View Mobil, I knew they could do the job. As I
rolled to a 
halt,
the manager approached me saying, "You know your tires are shredding?"
I said, "That's why I'm here". Before he mounted the new tires, I
asked him to check my suspension links, which felt loose and wobbly on
the road. No, the tires and suspension components I purchased that day
were not free, but my new tires were higher quality than I could buy at
any local tire store.
Soon, I had all new bolts, links and bushings on the suspension, plus
four new eight-ply tires. Each new “wet-bolt” features a grease fitting
and unlike the original nylon bushings, the new ones were solid
bronze. In the future, I can lubricate the whole suspension system,
mitigating excess tire wear and the loose handling I had previously
experienced. Longtime Desert View Mobil mechanic, Ricky Wallace and his
compatriot had me back on the road in less than three hours. Before I
departed, they provided a free grease-job on my wheel bearings. As I
headed for I-40, it felt like I was driving a brand new rig.
While
writing this article, I researched “Desert View Mobil” on the internet.
One image led me to Yelp, which features mostly negative reviews of
millions of businesses. The reviews for Desert View Mobil were true to
form. Most Yelp reviewers seem to hate all small businesses.
Eighty-percent of the Yelp reviews I read were extremely negative. How
could my experience with this particular business be so good while many
customers felt swindled, overcharged or defrauded?
As I said, Yelp is a “complainer’s paradise”, so do not expect to see
any good news there. Also, remember that you are in the town of
Needles, in the middle of the Mojave Desert.
Nothing is cheaper in the desert. Next door, at the Dairy Queen, I
bought the most expensive milkshake of my life. Desert travel is hard
on vehicles, whether they are trailers, motor homes or automobiles. Why
else would Desert View Mobil stock tires of almost every size? If you
limp in on three wheels, as one vintage Savoy trailer did, do not
expect a bargain, but do expect to 
be back safely on the road in short order. As they say, time is money.
Interstate I-40 has more elevation changes than a roller-coaster. If a
tire is going to fail, you can expect it to break apart somewhere near
Needles. If you travel at high speed and have neglected routine
maintenance, you will require help somewhere near Desert View Mobil.
When the staff there points out that your tires are bare and your
suspension is shot, do not blame them. Blame yourself for not fixing
the problem before leaving home. Besides, they offer a two-year written
warranty on parts and labor. Just keep the receipt in your glove box
and stop in for a safety check each time you pass by.
When I was rolling again, it was too late to drive the 300-miles home.
Instead, I headed down the long grade to Park Moabi, along the Colorado
River. Although the County of San 
Bernardino owns Moabi Regional Park, its concessionaire has renamed it “Pirate’s Cove”.
Adjacent to old Route-66 and the Colorado River, the park began life
in the 1930s as an itinerant travel camp for Dust Bowl escapees. In
prime season, the restaurant now serves around 3000 meals each day.
Boats from up and down the river flock to its lagoon. After anchoring,
boaters can take a water taxi to the restaurant. If you have the time
and money, you can take a float-plane ride, a speedboat ride or connect
your RV to a full hookup next to the river.
Not wanting to spend the extra ten dollars for a full hookup, I elected
to go with “water and power only”. That meant I would have to access
the RV dump in the morning. Still, with the outrageous price of $55 for
a full hookup near the Colorado River, saving money seemed appropriate.
My decision turned out to be a mistake. Instead of spending the night
in quiet seclusion by the river, I ended up camping amidst the biggest,
loudest party ever. I camped in an area occupied by hard-drinking
party-people, all of whom drove high-powered “quad” off-road vehicles.
Once I hooked up the water and power, I retreated to my coach. The
“Quiet Hour” of 10 PM came and went. Without fail, every ten minutes,
someone would fire up his ORV, just to 
hear the engine rev.
Are you a hard-drinking, “hoot & holler” pirate-type, enamored of
high-powered off-road vehicles? If so, Pirate's Cove is the place for
you. They tout 3200-miles of off-road trails to drive. With
high-revving engines all around and a complete lack of respect for
"quiet hours", you will experience a freewheeling atmosphere of loud
music, engine fumes and smoky campfires. If you enjoy peace, quiet and
have respect for your neighbors, stay as far away from Pirate’s Cove as
you can. When you check in, they copy your driver’s license, your
vehicle insurance certificate and take your credit card for payment. I
do not know who can access all that information, but the potential for identity theft is ever-present. For the reasons stated above, I give Pirate’s Cove management a "no stars" review.
Overnight, some prankster opened both the black-water and gray-water
valves on my coach. Only the outside cap retained the effluent. The
next morning, when I opened the cap at the RV 
dump,
one-hundred gallons of effluent poured out on the desert soil and on
me. Someone had already dumped a bucket-load of horse droppings by the
Pirate's Cove RV dump, so I did not feel bad about leaving the area as
soon as possible. By the time I cleaned up and departed the scene, it
was raining.
For the next 300-miles, the rain did not let up. Near sundown, I caught
a glimpse of Simi Valley from the pass at Rocky Peak. Upon arrival at
my destination, the rain had stopped and my winter camping experience
in the desert was complete.
That was how I spent Inauguration Weekend 2017. Do we have a new
president? Was there a protest march the next day? Is there an
unconstitutional immigrant ban in effect? Is my Medicare heading for a
voucher system? Will Congress slash my Social Security benefits?
Apparently, a lot can change when one spends a few nights at a "Hole In
The Wall" in the Mojave National Preserve.
By James McGillis at 02:56 PM | Travel | Comments (0) | Link
