Route 10 Eastbound
Arizona
It’s a three-state day today. We left Benton Arizona at 9:30 this morning, and got onto Route 10 Eastbound. After about 100 miles of gorgeous desolation of desert, we stopped for ten minutes in Willcox for McDonald’s coffee, which tasted so much better for my having waited.
I don’t know if I will be able to go on without these incredible views. Miles and miles of desert everywhere you look, and forty miles away in every direction, mountains in cowboy-movie purple and grey and red-brown, a rustic picture frame set against a sky of Blessed Mother blue. I never thought I’d love this part of the country as much as I seem to today.
My take on the desert has always been dust, scorpions and rattlesnakes. No thanks.
But instead of eeeyew I am in aah mode. Our vocabulary has suffered from the overuse of words like: incredible, magnificent, oh my god, so beautiful, and holy cow. We're going to have to consult a thesaurus for some new descriptors.
We’ll be in New Mexico in about a half hour, and we’ll skim the Mexican border, passing the border patrol stations, where we’ll inform the officials that while we are Americanos, our dog is a Chihuahua masquerading as a Jack Russell and should therefore be deported. So far it hasn’t worked. I loved New Mexico, so we’ll have to come back one day and explore some more of it. For now, however, it's a passageway to our next layover.
In a couple of hours we’ll roll into El Paso for the night. Texas is wide, really wide, so it will take us three days to cross it. Then onto Louisiana and north.
The body shop called today and said our parts were shipped this morning from Oregon to Syracuse. This time, somebody may actually be telling the truth. We’re on our way.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Sunday, January 11, 2009
A Junkyard Tale
Benton, AZ
January 11, 2009
I’ll bet you think that by now we’re old hands at this RV stuff. I’ll bet you think that with six months of driving under our collective belt, we’re not only road-savvy; we’re the Unsers, Knievels, Pettys, Newmans of the big rig. That we glide around obstacles; we ace bridges, dirt roads and skyways; we back up, in, and out with ease, never breaking a sweat the whole time.
Okay, maybe you don’t think that. Maybe you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or the other fender to fall off, to be a bit more automotive about it.
Actually, we've been doing pretty well. Aside from the occasional bay door that pops open as we drive along, giving our fellow drivers apoplexy, and causing them to gesture frantically to us that something is amiss. (We pull over and close it; no biggie.)
However, and of course there was bound to be a however. Today, we made 260 miles from Phoenix to Benton, Arizona, safe and sound, thank you very much, until it was time to pull in to the campground.
Our Tom-Tom is really a wuss. He panics when we don’t follow orders. He said to turn in 300 yards, so since he’d been nice to us for three whole hours, we obeyed, even though it really didn’t look as much like a campground as it did a junkyard.
To be sure, there were some RVs there, but these rigs looked like my grandfather might have built them, and my grandmother might have said, “You’ll never get ME in that thing!” Once we were past the gate of no return, we realized: it really was a junkyard.
Okay, we’d go in one gate and out the other. No problemo. Except that the second gate was locked. Now I ask you, why lock one gate when the other is wide open?
John looked for an escape-turnaround and found none, but there was one skinny road that seemed to loop around, just behind that dilapidated old truck carcass. There was also some unidentifiable tent of metal rods that we’d have to get around, but otherwise it looked negotiable. We went for it.
Scrittttcccch. That was the right rear-view mirror as it scrunched up against the cyclone fence on the right. Crrrrunnnnch. That was the sound of the left side coming into contact with the metal teepee thingy. I got out to investigate.
Well, the mirror scratch wasn’t too bad. It probably could be polished off. I walked around the back to investigate the other side of the coach.
The teepee, as it turned out, was a tent of rods protecting some sort of underground/overground pipe. Hmmm. The coach hadn’t hurt it, but it had ripped off the cotton batting and vinyl cover on the pipe.
Which also revealed the gauge. Which showed the gas pressure. Slowly, it dawned on me: we were sitting on a gas pipe. Now what? “Don’t move!” I screamed.
John got out the sledgehammer and banged on the connectors that tied the Jeep to the RV. With each bam, I flinched. Was I about to fly skyward? And what about John? At least I was in the Jeep. On the other hand, the Jeep and I were both prisoners of the car’s gas tank, weren’t we?
John finally got me separated from the death van, and I scooted backwards and out of the way of impending shrapnel. Now all we had to do was get the RV off the gas line without incident. Or course, we were sandwiched between it and the fence, which would make maneuvering problematic.
I took charge. Running to the back of the RV, I yelled into the backup camera, “Watch me! Turn up the volume! Listen to me! Don’t do anything until I tell you it’s okay.”
What a responsibility! On the other hand, what power! What control! I was the one! I put on my metal bra, my steel tiara and my thigh-high boots. I was Wonder Woman! Only I could get us out of this! Only me! I clicked my metal bracelets together! I would do this with all the exclamation points in my arsenal!
I forgot to be worried. I forgot everything except my charge – get us out of here, whole!
(I still had another exclamation point in my bag, obviously.)
“Watch me, watch me! Are you listening? Listen to me!” I yelled. I pointed right, I pointed left, I signaled come back straight, now turn, now pull those wheels all the way to the right, now straighten up, now stop, now pull forward, now get the hell out of here.
I’m typing this, so you know I was successful. We had a couple of small scratches on the left side where we broached the gas line and almost blew ourselves up. We probably have a scratch or two on the back of the mirror, but I didn’t even bother to look after the first quick glimpse.
Why should I? I was the hero of the hour. I didn’t need to sweat the small details.
Forty yards to the left of the junkyard, we pulled in and found a lovely campground. Maybe it was my imagination, but I swear the Tom-Tom blushed.
In the reception office, the sweet lady in charge greeted us with the usual, “Welcome, how was your trip?”
“Terrific,” we said.
January 11, 2009
I’ll bet you think that by now we’re old hands at this RV stuff. I’ll bet you think that with six months of driving under our collective belt, we’re not only road-savvy; we’re the Unsers, Knievels, Pettys, Newmans of the big rig. That we glide around obstacles; we ace bridges, dirt roads and skyways; we back up, in, and out with ease, never breaking a sweat the whole time.
Okay, maybe you don’t think that. Maybe you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop. Or the other fender to fall off, to be a bit more automotive about it.
Actually, we've been doing pretty well. Aside from the occasional bay door that pops open as we drive along, giving our fellow drivers apoplexy, and causing them to gesture frantically to us that something is amiss. (We pull over and close it; no biggie.)
However, and of course there was bound to be a however. Today, we made 260 miles from Phoenix to Benton, Arizona, safe and sound, thank you very much, until it was time to pull in to the campground.
Our Tom-Tom is really a wuss. He panics when we don’t follow orders. He said to turn in 300 yards, so since he’d been nice to us for three whole hours, we obeyed, even though it really didn’t look as much like a campground as it did a junkyard.
To be sure, there were some RVs there, but these rigs looked like my grandfather might have built them, and my grandmother might have said, “You’ll never get ME in that thing!” Once we were past the gate of no return, we realized: it really was a junkyard.
Okay, we’d go in one gate and out the other. No problemo. Except that the second gate was locked. Now I ask you, why lock one gate when the other is wide open?
John looked for an escape-turnaround and found none, but there was one skinny road that seemed to loop around, just behind that dilapidated old truck carcass. There was also some unidentifiable tent of metal rods that we’d have to get around, but otherwise it looked negotiable. We went for it.
Scrittttcccch. That was the right rear-view mirror as it scrunched up against the cyclone fence on the right. Crrrrunnnnch. That was the sound of the left side coming into contact with the metal teepee thingy. I got out to investigate.
Well, the mirror scratch wasn’t too bad. It probably could be polished off. I walked around the back to investigate the other side of the coach.
The teepee, as it turned out, was a tent of rods protecting some sort of underground/overground pipe. Hmmm. The coach hadn’t hurt it, but it had ripped off the cotton batting and vinyl cover on the pipe.
Which also revealed the gauge. Which showed the gas pressure. Slowly, it dawned on me: we were sitting on a gas pipe. Now what? “Don’t move!” I screamed.
John got out the sledgehammer and banged on the connectors that tied the Jeep to the RV. With each bam, I flinched. Was I about to fly skyward? And what about John? At least I was in the Jeep. On the other hand, the Jeep and I were both prisoners of the car’s gas tank, weren’t we?
John finally got me separated from the death van, and I scooted backwards and out of the way of impending shrapnel. Now all we had to do was get the RV off the gas line without incident. Or course, we were sandwiched between it and the fence, which would make maneuvering problematic.
I took charge. Running to the back of the RV, I yelled into the backup camera, “Watch me! Turn up the volume! Listen to me! Don’t do anything until I tell you it’s okay.”
What a responsibility! On the other hand, what power! What control! I was the one! I put on my metal bra, my steel tiara and my thigh-high boots. I was Wonder Woman! Only I could get us out of this! Only me! I clicked my metal bracelets together! I would do this with all the exclamation points in my arsenal!
I forgot to be worried. I forgot everything except my charge – get us out of here, whole!
(I still had another exclamation point in my bag, obviously.)
“Watch me, watch me! Are you listening? Listen to me!” I yelled. I pointed right, I pointed left, I signaled come back straight, now turn, now pull those wheels all the way to the right, now straighten up, now stop, now pull forward, now get the hell out of here.
I’m typing this, so you know I was successful. We had a couple of small scratches on the left side where we broached the gas line and almost blew ourselves up. We probably have a scratch or two on the back of the mirror, but I didn’t even bother to look after the first quick glimpse.
Why should I? I was the hero of the hour. I didn’t need to sweat the small details.
Forty yards to the left of the junkyard, we pulled in and found a lovely campground. Maybe it was my imagination, but I swear the Tom-Tom blushed.
In the reception office, the sweet lady in charge greeted us with the usual, “Welcome, how was your trip?”
“Terrific,” we said.
Friday, January 9, 2009
The Pleasure of Nothing
Ben Avery Shooting Range
Phoenix, AZ
For the past six months, whenever anyone has asked what I did in my other life, I have answered, “I’m a writer.” This gave me a present-time occupation and station in life and put to rest any notions that I might be one of the idle retired.
Not that I’ve seen many of those in my travels. I’ve seen lots of retirees, to be sure, but they’re usually on the golf course, or batting a ball around the tennis course, or shooting at clay targets, or working in stores in pleasant part-time jobs, or riding bicycles and motorcycles, or on top of their RV’s with the hose, saving the $100 it costs to have someone else wash your rig. Nobody is just sitting around.
But as my son pointed out over Christmas, my bike chain is rusted. My tennis racket is in storage. I haven’t written a thing since my Christmas blog, and then it was mostly pictures anyway. And there’s no way you’re going to find me on the roof of this rig with a hose. Put that notion out of your head right now.
So what have I been doing?
Nothing. Just being.
I’ve been reading, and driving, (and cooking and cleaning, okay, but that’s my choice, okay, it’s not but I do get hungry and you can’t eat dust). I’ve been playing Scrabble on line, and solitaire too. And I’ve been thinking about life, and the passage of time, and the death of one friend, and the stroke and heart transplant of another long-ago friend. And I’ve reconnected with another old friend, and made a new one. I’ve spent a precious two weeks with my son.
I’ve watched people dealing with the state of the economy. I’ve seen closed stores and talked with struggling business owners. I’ve seen a friend dump everything not essential out of his motor home to save on gas, and store his big car for the same reason. I’ve seen empty restaurants and deserted malls. Everywhere except in Dallas, where the oil business seems to be still profitable for most.
Still, it strikes me that we are really adept at coping. Life, at least to this observer, goes on.
I’ve also been looking at the recap of 2008 in pictures and realizing it’s mostly about war and maimed children, the economy notwithstanding. How sad. We have so much to learn.
But there is hope and joy in the things we haven’t managed to destroy with our human meddling. The mountains of the West, the majesty of the oceans on both coasts, the sight of a jackrabbit scuttling among the saguaros. Some of the funnier signs people put up by the side of the road. I thank god and the Internet recommendation for my Canon G9 camera, which has recorded many of these magic moments despite my bumbling photographic skills.
I’m going to send my nephew the pictures of the industrial cranes in Oakland that were the inspiration for some of Spielberg’s alien monsters in Star Wars. And my Christmas card next year will carry a special collage for all my friends, but that’s all I’ll say about that. And if I ever do write that book, I’ll have a visual record to jog my memory. Of course it makes John nuts when I drive with one hand and take pictures with the other, but once an opp is gone, it’s gone, I say.
And what, in all this doing-of-nothingness, do I plan for today? I think I’ll get my nails done. They’re getting a little long for typing and making the “I’m a writer” thing harder to believe. Although I have to admit, I may just answer the next query about my usefulness in the world with these words: What do I do? Nothing. I’m retired.
Now how ballsy would that be.
Betty
Phoenix, AZ
For the past six months, whenever anyone has asked what I did in my other life, I have answered, “I’m a writer.” This gave me a present-time occupation and station in life and put to rest any notions that I might be one of the idle retired.
Not that I’ve seen many of those in my travels. I’ve seen lots of retirees, to be sure, but they’re usually on the golf course, or batting a ball around the tennis course, or shooting at clay targets, or working in stores in pleasant part-time jobs, or riding bicycles and motorcycles, or on top of their RV’s with the hose, saving the $100 it costs to have someone else wash your rig. Nobody is just sitting around.
But as my son pointed out over Christmas, my bike chain is rusted. My tennis racket is in storage. I haven’t written a thing since my Christmas blog, and then it was mostly pictures anyway. And there’s no way you’re going to find me on the roof of this rig with a hose. Put that notion out of your head right now.
So what have I been doing?
Nothing. Just being.
I’ve been reading, and driving, (and cooking and cleaning, okay, but that’s my choice, okay, it’s not but I do get hungry and you can’t eat dust). I’ve been playing Scrabble on line, and solitaire too. And I’ve been thinking about life, and the passage of time, and the death of one friend, and the stroke and heart transplant of another long-ago friend. And I’ve reconnected with another old friend, and made a new one. I’ve spent a precious two weeks with my son.
I’ve watched people dealing with the state of the economy. I’ve seen closed stores and talked with struggling business owners. I’ve seen a friend dump everything not essential out of his motor home to save on gas, and store his big car for the same reason. I’ve seen empty restaurants and deserted malls. Everywhere except in Dallas, where the oil business seems to be still profitable for most.
Still, it strikes me that we are really adept at coping. Life, at least to this observer, goes on.
I’ve also been looking at the recap of 2008 in pictures and realizing it’s mostly about war and maimed children, the economy notwithstanding. How sad. We have so much to learn.
But there is hope and joy in the things we haven’t managed to destroy with our human meddling. The mountains of the West, the majesty of the oceans on both coasts, the sight of a jackrabbit scuttling among the saguaros. Some of the funnier signs people put up by the side of the road. I thank god and the Internet recommendation for my Canon G9 camera, which has recorded many of these magic moments despite my bumbling photographic skills.
I’m going to send my nephew the pictures of the industrial cranes in Oakland that were the inspiration for some of Spielberg’s alien monsters in Star Wars. And my Christmas card next year will carry a special collage for all my friends, but that’s all I’ll say about that. And if I ever do write that book, I’ll have a visual record to jog my memory. Of course it makes John nuts when I drive with one hand and take pictures with the other, but once an opp is gone, it’s gone, I say.
And what, in all this doing-of-nothingness, do I plan for today? I think I’ll get my nails done. They’re getting a little long for typing and making the “I’m a writer” thing harder to believe. Although I have to admit, I may just answer the next query about my usefulness in the world with these words: What do I do? Nothing. I’m retired.
Now how ballsy would that be.
Betty
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