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.

Email James McGillis

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.

Email James McGillis

 

 

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

A Mojave Desert Transit - 2011

 

A Mojave Desert Transit

The day started with four hours of packing for my 4-Corners trip. By 1:15 PM, I pulled away from Casa Carrie, with my Pioneer travel trailer in tow. As floodwater rose in the Atchafalaya Basin, I headed out of LA through the high desert, via the Pearblossom Highway. On the north slope of the San Gabriel Mountains, clouds of snow obscured several peaks. In late May, avalanche chutes were thick with fresh snow. It was 56 degrees on the highway, so 32 degrees at higher elevation was not a stretch.

 

On high desert cruise control, I was doing 60 mph on approach to Victorville. Deflecting the blur of Burger Kings and McDonalds from my eyes, I blew through town and headed north on Interstate I-15. My next stop was Love’s truck stop in Barstow, for fuel and a leftover chicken leg from last night’s dinner.

 

Taking Interstate I-40 East, towards Needles, CA, I picked up a tailwind, pushing me forward at 40 mph. Other Magellan GPS users might be familiar with the dreaded “Ludlow Dead Zone”. Perhaps it correlates with the big Ludlow earthquake in 2008. Since that time, I cannot transit in either direction between Ludlow and Needles without a major malfunction on my Magellan Crossover GPS. Not only does the screen freeze, but also a big red “X” appears over the usual green of the satellite indicator bars. Twenty minutes and twenty miles later, I resuscitated the device and got it working again. Am I the only Magellan GPS owner in the country who repeatedly hits the Ludlow Dead Zone? I do not want to attribute this strange phenomenon to paranormal activity, so I hope someone will step forward and comment on all of this.

 

Shortly after getting my GPS back on beam, I exited I-40 East at Essex Road, about 30 miles short of Needles. After another 20 miles on somewhat rough roads, I achieved my destiny, which was to arrive safely at Hole in the Wall Campground in the Mojave National Preserve. Thank you, Senator Diane Feinstein for championing the cause of 3.5 million acres of fragile and beautiful landscape. To stay here for but one night is to know both the wind and the beauty of our Desert Southwest.

 

According to my indoor/outdoor thermometer, after sunset the temperature here dropped one degree every ten minutes for the hour that I paid attention. In the low 60’s at sunset, it is 46 degrees now at 1:00 AM. The wind, which fell at dusk, plays now among the roof ornaments on my coach.

 

My only media tonight consisted of an AT&T 3G-voice connection and my Verizon 3G “MiFi 2200” wireless data card. No TV… thank goodness. When was the last time any of us spent 24-hours or more disconnected from all interactive media? My last foray off the grid was for two days, over two years ago, at Chaco Canyon, New Mexico. In three days, I shall be in Chaco Canyon again, studying the ruins and reveling in my disconnectedness.

 

During my previous visits there, I wrote several articles about the place on my blog. Having recently learned the term, “pre-Puebloan” from the author, Craig Childs, I used it in my 2008 article about the Kin Klizhin ruin near Chaco Canyon. Less than three years later, if you Google “Kin Klizhin”, that article appears on page three of the web results. If you then click on “images”, my pictures of Kin Klizhin are interspersed throughout the first five pages. Alternatively, if you Google “pre-Puebloan”, my 2008 article on Kin Klizhin is second only to the Wikipedia article which defines the term. Switching to image-results, two of the first five pictures are my own.

 

I write about these search results not to feed my own ego, but to tell “dear reader” that he or she can stake a claim on their favorite word or phrase and then see the results of their labor (or passion) in almost no time. The secret is to write with originality, publish your own pictures and then… go back and do it all again (and again).

 

For the next several weeks, that is exactly what I plan to do – travel throughout the Four Corners and write about what I see, hear and feel. Please join me as I explore the last American frontier and the deserts of our mind.

Email James McGillis

 

By James McGillis at 01:28 AM | Travel | Comments (0) | Link

A Windy Day in the Desert Southwest - 2009

 

A Windy Day in the Desert Southwest

At 12:30 PM on the first Sunday in October, we departed Casa Carrie in Simi Valley, California, bound for Quartzsite, Arizona. Our overnight stay would be the Holiday Palms RV Park in Quartzsite. As always, the first day of a Four Corners tour is a bit stressful. What have I remembered to pack and what have I forgotten? As it turned out, I forgot the charger for my Bluetooth headset and… my engagement ring.

 

From Simi Valley through the San Fernando, the San Gabriel and the San Bernardino Valleys, I listened to LA News on 1070 AM. The Sheep Fire at Lytle Creek, in the San Bernardino National Forest had broken through its lines and then burned toward the mountain town of Wrightwood, east of Mt. Baldy. As I transited east on the 210 Foothill Freeway, I listened as if I were in the old days of radio. The paid firefighters and the prisoners-of-the-state camp crews cooperated to create firebreaks and to lay fire hose lines up impossibly steep grades of freshly bulldozed earth.

 

White Bear, the DC-10 air tanker made one run, laying fire retardant down on crucial terrain. The P-2 Neptune and the P-3 Orion, both built by Lockheed, Burbank in mid-century could not overcome the masking effects of the swirling wind. Within thirty minutes, fresh winds cleared the ridge-views for the tankers to drop their loads. The same cold front catapulted me east on Interstate I-10 toward Needles and Quartzsite. All of this took place with barely a touch of the accelerator pedal on my Titan truck. The billboard-shaped back of my pioneer travel trailer caught the wind and pushed me forward.

 

When at Casa Carrie, I can hole-up for days at a time, driving nowhere at all. Then, the next trip to the desert takes shape in my mind. Will it include Chaco Canyon, New Mexico, Durango, Colorado or Canyon De Chelly National Monument, Arizona, if not the North Rim of the Grand Canyon? That is the beauty of Indian Country. One need not adhere to any particular schedule or route. Here, one’s location is a state of mind.

 

In Blythe, California, I stopped for provisions at the Albertson’s supermarket. Luckily, we had prepared a chicken stew the night before my departure, so I did not have to rely on their heavy emphasis of deli fried foods. To my dismay, the organic wheatgrass that they stock year round was getting a little leggy. I bought a pint container anyway, wanting it as much for the small lawn I can create with it in my coach as for any nutritional value it might hold.

 

When I settled in at Quartzsite, my indoor/outdoor thermometer froze at 75 degrees, both inside and out. Several hours later, neither indicator has budged. If only I had a barometer and hygrometer, I could determine if all atmospheric activity had actually stopped.

 

Quartzsite is 279 miles from Simi Valley. Arriving here with everything I need to survive indefinitely, except for my engagement ring, feels like an achievement. Now that I am on the road, it all gets easier. If I forgot to pack something, I can stop at Wal-Mart and buy it. That type of activity is what keeps the American economy “moving”, if indeed economies move at all.

 

On Friday, October 9, Carrie will fly from LAX to Grand Junction, Colorado. That day, I will drive from Moab, Utah on U.S. Highway 191 North and Interstate I-70 East to “Junction”. At the appointed hour, I will reunite with both Carrie and my engagement ring.

Email James McGillis

By James McGillis at 11:48 PM | Travel | 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

Four Corners Region Arizona Highways - Colorado Sunsets - 2008

The Magic Gate - Part 1

Four Corners Region

Arizona Highways - Colorado Sunsets

 

In ’65, I was seventeen.  That spring, after perusing an issue of Arizona Highways Magazine, my father asked if I would accompany him on a road trip to the Four Corners states of Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado and Utah.  I jumped at the chance.

 

In August 1965, we departed Los Angeles in our 1964 Ford Galaxy 500 XL, 2-door, hardtop.  The only equipment lacking on our Ford was an overflow tank for the superheated coolant that spewed past the radiator at each stopping point in the desert.

 

Early on, while traveling to summer camp, I had seen parts of the Mojave Desert from a school bus window.  My other desert experience consisted of viewing Walt Disney’s 1953 film, “The Living Desert”.  After viewing Disney’s documentary, I abandoned my belief that all deserts were inhospitable places, better left to the likes of the Twenty Mule Team from Borax.

 

Needles

 

Over forty years ago, as our trip progressed, new sections of Interstate Highway rapidly replaced or bypassed The Mother Road, Old Route 66.  Whether it was on Old-66 or new I-40, my first taste of desert heat was in Needles, California.  There, an outdoor thermometer read 117 degrees.  To me, the town “Needles” and the word “needless” had a lot in common.

 

From Needles, both Route 66 and I-40 crossed the Colorado River, and then ran north towards Kingman, Arizona.  Ironically, Old-66 took the shorter, if steeper route.  In contrast, I-40 ran east for many miles before turning north.  The road from Kingman to Flagstaff, Arizona was like a 150-mile slow-motion roller coaster ride.  From Needles, our overall elevation gain was almost 7000 feet.  In the same spirit that their ancestors joined the Saints in the old Utah Territory or explored the African savannah, contemporary Europeans seek the open spaces of the Southwest.  Studies indicate that humans, regardless of their origin, choose open grasslands and wide vistas over any other idealized environment.  In my memory, Flagstaff consisted of nothing more than one grade crossing and a nearby railroad station.  Since then, Flagstaff has transformed itself into a major city, now utilizing Winslow, Arizona, sixty miles to the east as its more affordable suburb.

 

Four Corners

 

Remembering our 1965 trip engenders in me nostalgia for a bygone era.  Interestingly, people from outside the U.S. seem to share that nostalgia.  In particular, the British, Dutch, Germans and Scandinavians arrive here by the thousands each summer.  Often, they rent motor homes, bent on rediscovering

 

In 1965, the combined population of Arizona, New Mexico, Colorado and Utah was about seven million.  New Mexico then topped Utah by sixty thousand.  Today, the Four Corners has a population of almost eighteen million.  Utah now outpaces New Mexico by seven hundred thousand.  Suffice to say the Four Corners supports eleven million more people today than in 1965.

 

Flagstaff

 

“Flag”, as the locals call it, etched a visual imprint on my mind.  I can still see what I call the Magic Gate, where South Beaver Street crossed the main line of the Santa Fe Railroad.  In my memory, Flagstaff consisted of nothing more than one grade crossing and a nearby railroad station.  Since then, Flagstaff has transformed itself into a major city, now utilizing Winslow, Arizona, sixty miles to the east as its more affordable suburb. South of there, at Snowflake, lived World Citizen, Kathy Hemenway.

 

From Flag, we headed east on Santa Fe Avenue, better known as Old-66, only to discover that the Mother Road was being replaced by I-40.  From Flagstaff, the Santa Fe rail line took the most direct route east, turning only when necessary to follow the easiest grade.  Likewise, Old-66 and I-40 share almost identical routes, closely following the tracks.  The result is that the same Petrified Forest, Native American trading posts and historic motels that we saw in 1965 still lie adjacent to the current highway.

 

Gallup

 

At Gallup, New Mexico we drove east on Old-66 towards downtown.  Featuring substantial brick buildings, it was a regional center for trade and tourism.  Traveling down that same road today reveals a scene little changed since 1965.  All along I-40, older towns have remained in place, with new construction occurred at either end of town. 

 

From Gallup, we drove north on Old U.S. Highway 666.  With the Devil’s popularity in contemporary American culture, the moniker “Highway 666” tempted many.  Not withstanding the risk of “going to hell” for stealing highway signs, travelers made illegal souvenirs of Old-666 markers.  In 2003, New Mexico, Colorado and Utah gave up the fight, changing the road’s designation to the benign but meaningless “U.S. Highway 491”.  Ironically, new highway signposts often have “Old Highway 666” signs attached just below their new Highway 491 signs.

 

Each afternoon, for the duration of our trip we experienced the gift of rainfall, either in the form of desert thunderstorms or mountain showers.  In the late 1960s, American pilots returning from Vietnam to airbases in the Southwest recognized a similarity to the pattern of rain they had seen in Southeast Asia.  “Monsoon”, a word with Dutch, Portuguese and Arabic origins thus made its way into our weather lexicon.  

 

Durango

 

Since its establishment in the 1880s, Durango, Colorado has nestled itself into the narrows of the Upper Animas River Valley.  On our 1965 visit, the town had not yet expanded beyond its original borders.  Today, a regional shopping center featuring Wal-Mart and Home Depot greets travelers arriving from Aztec, New Mexico in the south. 

 

Durango is a year-round tourist destination.  To the chagrin of prospective homeowners, cash-buyers swooped in during the early 2000s.  Durango’s high prices now send the budget-minded to nearby Bayfield or Mancos.  During a recent visit to Canyon De Chelly, Arizona, we spoke with a Native American artist, selling his works there.  Each week, he commuted two hundred and forty miles, to work on construction jobs in Durango. 

 

During the 1960s, the Durango & Silverton Narrow Gauge Railroad was in transition.  Construction gangs upgraded the gravel roadbed and then laid heavier rails.  Those improvements support the larger, more powerful locomotives seen on the rail line today.  As old as they appear, the current engines represent relatively modern designs, when compared to the originals.  The upgraded railroad helped carry the cities of Durango and Silverton through their transition from a mining, farming and ranching economy into today’s recreation and tourist-based economy.

 

With Durango’s gentrification came new residents who did not appreciate steam locomotives in nearby barns, puffing coal smoke into the night air.  A recent Durango Herald letter to the editor asked that the locomotives extinguish their fireboxes each night, so that nearby residents could sleep in peace and clean air.  Old wags pointed out that one could not restart a locomotive each day as if it were a diesel engine.  The general sentiment in the community was, “if you do not like coal smoke, move elsewhere”.

 

Read Part 2 of this five-part story about the Four Corner States.

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By James McGillis at 03:03 PM | Travel | Comments (0) | Link