2020 Closure of All Mojave National Preserve Campgrounds and Facilities

By March 2020, the current health crisis had burst out like a California brush fire. On March 19, 2020, California Governor Gavin Newsom issued a “stay-at-home” order for the entire state. Only essential services were to remain open. Under that order, residents were to stay at home and venture out only for essential purposes, such as food, medical care or if one’s work was deemed essential. Mobile dog grooming did not appear on the “essentials” list, yet mobile dog groomers plied many streets.

Having already planned a winter camping trip to the Mojave National Preserve, I contemplated cancelling that annual tradition. In those early days of the pandemic, different jurisdictions were struggling to determine their best course of action. When I visited the Mojave Preserve website, they had closed all visitor centers, but their developed campgrounds remained open.

With my self-contained RV, I could carry everything I needed for three nights of dry camping in the desert. My favorite winter camping spot is Hole-in-the-Wall Campground, 267-miles from our home in Simi Valley. With luck, my only contact with others would be at fuel stops in Barstow and again at Ludlow, just off Interstate I-40. With two five-gallon fuel containers stowed in the back of my pickup truck, I would have plenty of fuel for day trips and exploring remote desert sites. For the entire trip, I planned not to visit restrooms, convenience stores or any other indoor venue. While pumping fuel, I planned to wear gloves and my bandana as a mask.

On March 22, I hit the road. Including two fuel stops, the whole journey took less than seven hours. Upon my arrival, I found a perfect campsite, along the edge and away from other campers. I had my portable generator, solar panels and storage batteries for power. I had enough propane to run the furnace and refrigerator. My fresh water tank was full.

Although it was already spring, a cold storm had recently swept the area. As the sun set early behind The Universal Reflector, the air temperature cooled rapidly. Before sunrise, the outdoor temperature would dip to near freezing. I was comfortable and secure in my self-contained isolation pod. On my first full day, I planned to remain in camp, except to take a couple of short hikes.

At mid afternoon, I changed plans and drove north from the campground and up the muddy dirt track called Black Canyon Road. About five miles north, I turned westat Wild Horse Canyon Road. After I passed the turn-off to Mid Hills Campground, the road narrowed. A prominent sign read, “Four Wheel Drive Only”. Realizing that the sun was sinking toward the horizon, I hurried to complete the loop back to my campsite before sundown. During my entire trip of about fifteen miles, I did not see another human or vehicle.

On the second half of the loop, the road crosses a ravine and later runs down the middle of an arroyo. Where the road crosses the ravine, I encountered a bovine traffic jam. Three yearling calves, and two horned cows were crossing the road. Leading the herd, the mother cows had surmounting the adjoining hillside. Not wanting to scare the calves, I stopped my truck and waited. One cow stood watching the scene from summit of the hill. As if they had never encountered a motor vehicle, the calves stood in the road. They appeared to be in awe of my big, growly diesel truck. I sat patiently, but with the engine running. This far from my camp, the last thing I wanted was a stalled vehicle.

Soon, the sturdy calves made their way, one at a time, to the top of the hill. I was in the high desert, with an elevation of up to 5,600 feet at Mid Hills Campground. From November to April, most nights are at or below freezing. In the summer, temperatures often rise above 100 f degrees. There was no shelter for miles around. I marveled that these animals appeared to be so well adapted to their harsh environment.

On the following morning, I enjoyed a leisurely cup of coffee in camp. As I contemplated where to hike or explore that day, there was a rap on my door. When I answered, I encountered a female ranger, standing about fifteen feet away. “We are closing the campground”, she said. “Everyone needs to leave before 2 PM”. “Why are you shutting down?” I asked. “Everyone else is shutting down, so we are too” was her answer. “Everyone has to leave as soon as possible”, she said with authority. “You can camp on open land, at an existing campsite, but not here in the campground”.

Having planned to stay another night, I was determined to find a suitable place. I scouted several campsites that were near the road, but none of them looked inviting to me. At one point, I made the mistake of driving my rig to the end of a dirt track, only to find it occupied by another camper. Ingloriously, I had to back my rig up several hundred yards. When I reached the end of that strenuous task, I turned too sharply, impinging the fifth-wheel hitch on the bed of my truck.

The damage was slight, but my judgment had been faulty. Never take a rig down a road that you are unsure of, I reminded myself. After that, I made my way toward a level area near the end of my previous day’s loop-road journey. My rig is tall and top-heavy, but I was beyond my better judgment. I determined that I could surmount the rise in the rough road and have an idyllic spot to camp for my final night. Going in was not difficult. Although there was one campsite occupied nearby, my own campsite had a 360-degree view and the peace and solitude I desired.

The next morning, I prepared my rig and headed back up the dirt track to Black Canyon Road. I shifted my truck into four-wheel drive and crawled along in low-range. The previous afternoon, on my way into camp, I had seen some car campers setting up in a big dry wash. I had looked at them as if they were crazy. Any experienced camper knows not to camp in a dry wash. Flash floods are all too common in the desert. At the time, those campers had looked at me as if I was crazy for driving such a huge rig over the rough road to my destination.

On my way back out to the paved road, my right-front wheel lifted off the ground, meaning that my rig was tilting badly to the left, behind me. I pressed on. My front wheel returned to the ground and the rig leveled out. As I passed the arroyo, I looked at the campers again as if they were crazy to have spent the night there. They looked at me, astonished that I was able to get my rig back to the highway.

In the end, it all worked out OK for everyone. At that time, I had wanted to stay another to stay another night in the peace and quiet of the Mojave Desert. If presented with the same circumstances today, I would opt for cutting short my visit to the Mojave National Preserve.

As of early September 2020, due to National Park Service orders, all visitor centers, campgrounds, pit toilets, the Lava Tube and the Zzyzx area are closed. Please plan accordingly and travel safely. Emergency response times may be much longer than usual. As of January 2021, only the campgrounds and the Hole In the Wall Visitor Center are open.

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By James McGillis at 05:12 PM | Mojave Desert | Comments (0) | Link

 

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.

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By James McGillis at 02:56 PM | Travel | Comments (0) | Link

Desert View Mobil - A Real Service Station - In Needles, California - 2011

 

Desert View Mobil - A Real Service Station - In Needles, California

After three weeks traveling through Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado and Utah, I am safely home again at Casa Carrie in Simi Valley, California. Over the years, I have learned that any visit to the Four Corners States will be an adventure. This extended visit to the High Southwest was no exception.

 

After one night at the Mojave National Preserve, I drove into Needles, California for some service on my trailer. To many travelers, a stop for repairs in Needles is a recipe for disaster. For me, it is always a pleasure. Although my first visit to the Desert View Mobil Station in Needles was of necessity, not choice, over the ensuing years I have stopped there often. After my first visit, I realized that it was not just a gas station in the desert. Instead, I found that their prices for tires and repairs were fair and that their service was exemplary. Since then, I always try to stop there for trailer tires, fuel or repairs.

 

In 2008, when I purchased four tires and replaced the suspension links on my Pioneer trailer, Desert View Mobil offered me a lifetime warranty on their work. In February 2009, when I last required brake service on my travel trailer, regular gasoline was $2.89 per gallon. In May 2011, when I pulled in, regular gasoline was $4.89 per gallon. With failing brakes on my coach, I hoped that their warranty was still in effect. As I pulled in, Ricky the mechanic came out to the service island and surveyed my rig. Although we both looked a couple of years older, we recognized each other immediately. After describing my problem, he invited me to pull around the station for a ‘look see’.

 

Two hours later, I was on the road again, confident that my rig was up to the task of a two thousand mile trip. During my brief stay, Ricky diagnosed and fixed my brake system, while others in the crew balanced my wheels and replaced one valve stem. Then, Ricky lubricated all of the fittings on the suspension links he had installed three years prior. Upon completion, I expected to pay for the wheel balancing, the valve stem and the lubrication. After completing his work, Ricky washed up, came out front and surprised me by saying, “No Charge”. And that is why Desert View Mobil, in Needles, California continues to earn my business.

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By James McGillis at 02:48 PM | Travel | Comments (0) | Link

Phoenix, AZ - Laughlin, NV and the Mojave National Preserve - 2010

 

Phoenix, AZ - Laughlin, NV and the Mojave National Preserve

In mid May, I drove the 400-mile distance from Simi Valley, CA to Phoenix, AZ. Although Arizona was my former home, I now spend less time there. With so much time between my visits, changes to familiar landmarks are easy to spot. One positive change is the widening of many freeways throughout the Valley of the Sun. From Goodyear to Phoenix, motorists will find construction all along Interstate I-10. Additionally, the Interstate I-17 widening project, leading north from Phoenix, nears completion.

Sadly, the portion of I-17 between Anthem, AZ and the Sunset View Scenic Rest Point, near the Bumble Bee ghost town still rates as one of the most dangerous highways in Arizona. On I-17 North, toward Flagstaff, speed limits of sixty-five to seventy-five mile per hour are common. Interspersed on the road are sharp curves, steep hills and many motorists predisposed to speeding and traffic accidents.

During my recent visit, the Arizona Republic newspaper published the story regarding a motorist who lost control and drove unseen off the side of I-17. Despite tumbling with his SUV into a ravine, the injured motorist successfully completed a mobile telephone call to 911. The resulting ground search was insufficient to locate the motorist. An air search, initiated several days later, located the motorist and his son. Officers pronounced them both dead at the scene.

I love All that Is Arizona. Shortly before my recent visit, I was disheartened to learn that Governor Jan Brewer had signed legislation that places up to one-third of Arizona residents under suspicion. That new law requires Arizona police officers to check the federal immigration documents of those who they suspect to be undocumented immigrants. If unable to produce legal residency documents, the police officer will then arrest the undocumented person. We wonder if police will require middle-aged white people to produce Canadian immigration papers. The propensity for police racial profiling, conscious or not, tells me that few white people will have to justify their residency status.

One can imagine a routine traffic stop leading to the arrest of a person who has lived in Arizona since just after the federal immigration amnesty of 1987. Would that person, who has lived in Arizona for two decades be subject to deportation, right along with a 2010 border-crosser? If eleven to fourteen million undocumented immigrants now live in the U.S. , how busy might we expect Arizona’s police to be in confronting and arresting the undocumented?

Today, persons of Latino or Hispanic extraction comprise about one third of Arizona’s total population. The governor’s assurance that police officers will receive “anti-racial-profiling training” leaves me cold. As we know, whether we apply “positive” or “negative” energy to any subject, we will soon get more of whatever we focus upon. Thus, in attempting to avoid racial profiling, there will naturally be more profiling activity, whether intended it or not.

Similar to discrimination that Austrian and German Jews experienced before World War II, will Arizonans soon report their neighbors as suspected “illegal aliens”? Would the act of accusing one’s neighbor create “probable cause” for the police to verify the residency status of “the accused”? When the law goes into effect, I expect police “anonymous tip-lines” to ring more often. Those communications lines could soon allow one neighbor to accuse another of not being a "real" American.

That day, I stopped at Baja Fresh in Tempe for lunch. During my visit, a steady stream of people frequented the restaurant. As I sat and ate, I found myself wondering what comprised each individual’s ethnic or racial makeup. Soon, I realized that I was engaged in the silent racial profiling of Arizona residents.

In 1848, the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo ended the U.S. Mexican War. At the time, Mexico ceded large parts of current-day Arizona, California and New Mexico to the United States. At their inception, Mexican Americans outnumbered Anglo Americans in all three territories. Native Indians may have outnumbered both Latinos and Anglos, but their subsequent sequestration, subjugation and near annihilation makes their situation hard to compare. By treaty, all Mexican Americans, but none of the Indian Americans became citizens of the United States.

I hope that any “anti racial-profiling” training that local police and sheriff’s deputies receive is superlative. For years now, the sheriff of Maricopa County has conducted document-search sweeps in predominantly Hispanic neighborhoods. For a police officer to discern which Hispanic has a 163-year citizenship legacy and which one is a recent arrival is going to take some great “anti-racial-profiling training”. What criteria will they use to decide when to ask someone for papers?

Let us now remember the motorist who disappeared off the side of I-17, subsequently dying of injuries or exposure. Will the Arizona police soon be so busy arresting undocumented persons that they will no longer have sufficient recourse to search thoroughly for accident victims? As a motorist, I prefer to see more “search and rescue” missions, rather than “confront and arrest” missions now sanctioned by Arizona law.

With our time, energy and money, each of us “votes” for what we like, or dislike. Arizona’s politicians and electorate recently used their resources to whip up bigotry and fear of Latino or Hispanic residents. Now, this fear has spread to Utah, where the legislature is considering similar anti-immigrant legislation of its own. When pettiness and bigotry take over the energies of a “body politic”, it is time for me to place my energies elsewhere. Until its anti-immigrant laws disappear from the books, I shall avoid doing business in Arizona. Until sanity and humanity return, my Arizona visits will be restricted to necessary medical appointments. When this is all over, I hope that the Grand Canyon will still there. I would love to see that place again.

After my overnight stay in Phoenix, I visited my doctor in Scottsdale, and then headed northwest toward Laughlin, Nevada. There, I spent the night at Harrah's Laughlin, Nevada Hotel and Casino. My elapsed time for the 270-mile trip from Phoenix to Laughlin was less than five hours.

Once I crossed the Colorado River Bridge and entered Laughlin, I breathed a sigh of relief. For less than $50, I had booked a River View, King Room at Harrah's. When I checked in, the guest services representative invited me into the Diamond Check-in Room. There, she promptly dropped the price of my room to less than $40, plus tax. The room was on the fourth floor, allowing a panoramic view of the Colorado River. Throughout my stay, all hotel services were impeccable. Additionally, I found the onsite McDonald's and Baskin Robbins convenient for quick meals and snacks.

During my stay, there were many Japanese tourists at Harrah’s. As I entered the hotel, there was a group of twenty receiving their individual tickets for an evening event. Many more enjoyed the swimming pool, which was just below my window. On my hotel TV, NHK Cosmomedia Japan provided their English-speaking TV Japan channel. Unlike many U.S. cable news sources, TV Japan featured unbiased news reporting. If I had a choice at home, I would gladly exchange NHK for my current Fox. I love to stay informed, but prefer my news without an obvious editorial slant.

As I exited the casino that evening, I spotted a senior couple eating ice cream together at Baskin Robbins. They were enjoying themselves so much that they reminded me of a young couple on their first date. After passing by, I stopped, turned back, smiled and then said to them, "You are the two most sensible people in this whole place". The woman jumped about six inches, but the man smiled, held his hand out and said, "Thank you".

As my friend, Leonard recently said, "I really like Laughlin; my wife does not. I figure it takes me about as long to drive from Los Angeles to Laughlin as it does to Las Vegas. However, there is an obvious difference between the two. Las Vegas has too much; Laughlin has absolutely nothing. For me, it is a great place to get away and do nothing. I think "nothing" is the primary attraction in Laughlin.

Next to Harrah’s, the Riverside Hotel & Casino has some things to see. There is an antique automobile museum there and a watch store that sells all sorts of ... uh ... watches. The town of Oatman, Arizona is close by. I think Tim McVeigh hung out there before he blew up the federal building in Oklahoma City. Today you can go to Oatman and feed carrots to wild burros. Descendents of pack animals brought by miners long ago, they still wander the streets.”

The next day, I departed Laughlin for Simi Valley, California. My trip west across the desert via I-40, then south on I-15 was beautiful. With temperatures in the 80's, clear air and minimal traffic; I made it home in record time. In recent years, the Mojave Desert has experienced extreme drought conditions. This winter, the rains swept in and the Mojave National Preserve now looks green by comparison. Later, as I approached the north side of the San Gabriel Mountains on I-15, heavy snowdrifts there attested to this year’s wet winter in Southern California.

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By James McGillis at 06:12 PM | Current Events | Comments (0) | Link

Winter Camping in the Deserts of Arizona and California - 2009

 

Winter Camping in the Deserts of Arizona and California

On February 9, 2009, I hooked up my rig and pulled to Quartzsite, AZ, where I would spend the night, prior to a midday appointment in Phoenix, Arizona the next day.  Being two thirds of the way to Phoenix from Simi Valley, CA, makes it a good stopping point on Interstate 10.  As always, I stayed at the bucolic, but efficient Holiday Palms RV Park.  With a reservation guaranteed for late arrival, Quartzsite represented my safe harbor for the night.

 

Although economic realities had diminished the snowbird RV-exodus to the Arizona desert this winter, the town was still alive.  Row upon row of large RV’s lay unwanted and unloved at the temporary dealership lots set up for a crowd that never arrived.  If Quartzsite were not on the interstate, it would have rolled up and blown away this winter.  Still, a quiet night’s sleep in the desert is always a good thing and I enjoyed my brief time there.

 

In the morning, I unhooked the utilities from my Pioneer travel trailer, raised the leveling jacks and drove toward Phoenix under a clear desert sky.  The clear, cold air outside was in stark contrast to my experiences the day and evening before.

 

As I left LA, that Monday morning, it was rainy and dark.  Across the LA Basin and until I reached the top of the Banning Pass, it rained.  Then, as if the rain had not yet earned its place in the low desert of California, not a sprinkle fell during my transit to Quartzsite.

 

Once I was in Phoenix, I needed to find my doctor's office in Scottsdale.  With help from my Magellan GPS, I arrived there rested and with time to take a few deep breaths before proceeding.

 

During my tour of the Phoenix freeway system, I noticed large roadside pools of water where I had not seen water before.  At the doctor’s office, water stood in pools throughout the landscaping and along the walkways.  When I commented to the office manager, she indicated that a storm had released drenching rain in Phoenix overnight.  It seems that the storm that I watched disappear in the low desert had rematerialized in Phoenix.

 

Leaving Phoenix on Tuesday afternoon, I traveled northwest on US Highway 93.  Other than one westward jog, where it shares a route with Interstate 40 to Kingman, Arizona, Highway 93 makes a beeline for Las Vegas, NV, 290 miles from Phoenix.  Having departed the Valley of the Sun in the late afternoon, darkness soon overtook me.

 

Although a long transit on a dark, desert highway might otherwise have been a problem, my prior stays at Burro Creek Campground told me that I had nothing to fear.  When I arrived at Burro Creek after dark, it took a while to find the water-fill, but once my fresh water tank was half full; I found a campsite adjacent to Burro Creek, itself.

 

Although the temperature fell towards freezing, I was safe and warm inside.  My coach is equipped with a forced-air, propane heater and a propane refrigerator/freezer to keep my food fresh.  Since I was dry camping, I used battery power for all other services.  With a quiet night outside and the sound of rushing Burro Creek reaching my ears, I experienced an easy transition from wakefulness to sleep.

 

Wednesday morning, I continued northwest on Highway 93.  I intended to take I-40 West and arrive in Needles, CA that afternoon.  Early in my day’s journey, Highway 93 climbed to higher elevations, displaying snowy mountains on either side of the long valley in which the highway lies.

 

Stopping north of Wikieup, AZ, I discovered separate entrances to Windmill Ranch on either side of the highway.  There, framed by the posts and crossbeam of the ranch entrance were mountains, fresh with winter snow.  Since the highway climbs until reaching a summit near Kingman, AZ, I was interested to see if I might climb above the snowline that day.

 

When I stopped for fuel at a travel center on I-40, west of Kingman, snow lay across the ground, although the roadway was dry.  The snowy landscape, juxtaposed with the big rigs entering and leaving the truck stop provided ample contrast for my camera.

 

Leaving the travel center, I descended the long grade towards Kingman.  Along the way, a tour bus zoomed past me at seventy miles per hour.  It was the tour bus for the Harlem Globetrotters, rocketing towards a Las Vegas exhibition match.

 

At Kingman, the two highways diverged, with Highway 93 heading northwest towards Las Vegas.  Interstate 40, which was my route, turned almost due south.  With few roadside attractions on that sixty-five mile strip of arid desert, the trip to Needles became a moving meditation.  Approaching Needles, the interstate turns west and finally north, avoiding mountain ranges and seeking a good river crossing along the way.

 

Near Needles, there are separate bridges across the Colorado River for motor vehicles, the Burlington Northern Santa Fe Railroad and natural gas transmission pipelines.  A concentration of electrical transmission lines follows this route, as well.  At that crossing, conduits for almost all of our Old Energy and transportation services converge.  The reason for this convergence of services is the topography on either side of the Colorado River. 

 

In 1890, the Santa Fe Railroad built the first bridge across the Colorado River, near Needles.  Since railroad surveyors plan rail lines with minimum elevation changes, the steep and solid riverbanks at Needles helped the railroad reduce both construction and operating costs.  When the railroad bridge was relocated just upstream in 1945, a new Route 66 bridge soon replaced the original railroad bridge.  At that time, the 1916 highway bridge, known as Trails Arch Bridge, was decommissioned for vehicle traffic.  Now used as an oil and gas pipeline bridge, the nearly one hundred year old structure looks like a contemporary industrial icon.  When I-40 replaced Old-66 in the 1960s, a new highway bridge again spanned the river.  Not ironically, the current I-40 bridge occupies the same space that the original railroad bridge did in 1890.

 

Once I arrived in Needles, I proceeded to the Desert View Mobil Station, where I had twice bought tires for my trailer.  That second set of tires coincided with complete replacement of the brakes and active suspension linkages on my coach.  With Desert View’s lifetime warranty, I hoped to get my brakes fixed free.  Not only had one brake stopped operating, loose parts clanged away inside the brake assembly.  When I rolled in, the regular crew was there to greet me.  Before nightfall, they had replaced the faulty brake assembly and diagnosed a separate electrical problem with my trailer brakes.

 

Once the wheels were back on the trailer, I headed west, up the long grade on the California side of the river.  My destination was the Hole in the Wall Campground at the Mojave National Preserve, campsite for my last night before returning to LA.  Since the campground is twenty miles off the interstate, it takes a while to get there.  As twilight turned to darkness, I arrived at the sparsely occupied campground.

 

In the spring and fall, the campground is busy, with many of the thirty-five campsites occupied.  At an elevation of 4400 feet, with remnants of snowfall still occupying shaded areas, it was a cold 34 degrees f. when I arrived.  Unaware of how cold it might be at that elevation, I had thawed a steak earlier that day.  Unwilling to let my steak go uncooked, I bundled up in a heavy jacket, gloves and muffler before I ventured outside to grill the meat.

 

Once I was back inside for the night, I watched a DVD movie, did some writing on my laptop computer, ran the heater and enjoyed the lights.  Around bedtime, I realized that I had drained at least half of the available electrical current from my house batteries.  “Whoops”, I said to myself.  “I hope there is enough life in the batteries to spin the furnace motor when I need it.” 

 

The next morning, it was cold in the coach.  I checked the monitor panel and found the batteries in a critically low state of charge.  I was too cold to go outside and set up my portable Honda generator, which could easily recharge the batteries.  The only other power source was my Nissan Titan truck.  Braving the elements, I sprinted outside and started the engine.  Soon, electricity flowed from the alternator on the truck to the house batteries.  That allowed me to restart the furnace and warm the coach.

 

Well warmed, with a mug of hot coffee in my gloved hands, I then ventured out to set up and start the Honda generator.  After turning off the truck engine, I retreated inside to make breakfast while the generator recharged the batteries.  In less than an hour, the house batteries were full and operating properly.

 

In a flash of late brilliance, I remembered that a quiet night at Burro Creek's 1,960 foot elevation was not like a deep-freeze night at 4400 feet.  This was especially true after running all of my electrically powered services.  Since electrical systems operate less efficiently at low temperatures, it is a lesson I will recall next time I winter camp in the California desert.

 

On Thursday morning, as the Sun began to warm the air, I ventured out to take pictures of canyons, mesas and mountains shrouded in snow.  Snow typically lasts only a few days in this arid land.  This being the third day since the winter storm, it was indeed a treat to photograph a vast, yet intimate bit of desert.  I felt as if I were going back in time, to epochs long forgotten.  There, I viewed a winter scene, much as it looked before ancient climate changes created my spiritual home, the desert.  As always, The Great Reflector stood guard over all.

Returning from my New Earth, I departed the campground, stopping at the RV dump along the way.  When I opened the valve to release the gray water from its holding tank, nothing happened.  After about fifteen seconds, the gray water, warmed by my recent hot shower, released and dumped down the hose.  Next, I opened the black water valve.  It dumped immediately.  Luckily, the previous owner of my coach had installed a heater on the black water pipe.  That heater had been the unseen energy thief, draining my batteries overnight.  That thief was now a godsend.  If that pipe remained frozen, I would face a long drive home with a full holding tank, which meant both a heavy and noxious issue to deal with later.

 

Travel trailer manufacturers design their coaches for spring, summer and fall camping, not for freezing weather, parked far away from a reliable electrical supply.  By stretching my own limits a bit, I realized that winter camping in the desert is gloriously fun, if different from warm weather camping.  Still, the rare opportunity to travel almost 1000 miles and camp in three different desert sub-climates was, for me, yet another trip of a lifetime.

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By James McGillis at 06:04 PM | Travel | Comments (0) | Link