Paul and Liralee are play-kickboxing in this tiny room where we sit above a bank at half past 10 in the evening. Their jabs and grunts have Adam and I laughing and grinning, as we have been all day and night, from the Arcosanti visitor parking lot this morning to the swimming pool overlooking the canyon this afternoon to the lovely and long birthday dinner for Paul, to our current locale: the KJZA radio studio where Paul played guitar on a weekly radio show, Two Lane Blues.
We had Indian food to celebrate Paul's birthday with his friends George and Susan, in whose driveway we will slumber tonight. The restaurant was equipped with a projector screen, playing Punjabi music video DVDs. I didn't realize until after our meal that the music I'd been hearing was from the videos. Ravinder Grewal was the star. We all sat glued to the screen for 20 minutes or so after we ate the last bite of mango ginger kulfi. The costumes of the dancers were Technicolor green, yellow, and pink. It made us feel happy. We debated whether the lead was Seik or not. Our hostess told us all the videos were about love, when she asked whether we were figuring out the story lines or not.
It's been a delightful day. My teeth are gritty from so much sugar (in the chai, in the Green & Black's dark chocolate, in the kulfi, in the candied anise seeds...). While Paul was playing on the show, Adam and I sat here in the studio on our computers. These instruments are our primary way to connect with our friends and family...it feels so good to do that. I got to chat (IM) with Hans this evening for the first time (funny that at home I was less connected to friends in some ways). It's so good to have more time for staying in contact.
We are gathering for the door here, so I'll sign off for now.
Sunday, May 29, 2005
Arcosanti
Trading a cool climate for entertainment and companionship, we headed South in the late afternoon for Arcosanti. Paulo Soleri, the architect, envisioned this place as a model of urban design. We arrived knowing only this, and that our friend Paul Sprawl would be performing in some sort of weekend festival.
Arcosanti, it turns out, is an artist's village and performance venue. Situated on one side of a canyon, its round, cement structures didn't jump out at me as especially exemplary of alternative urban design, though the shapes: huge arches and domes in every orientation, are compelling. The large room behind the stage reminded me of UC Santa Cruz. A hiking trail leads down into the gorge and back up on the other side, where the village appears more integrated as one conceptual manifestation. The living quarters are set down in the canyon, away from the amphitheater, studios and dining commons. A large swimming pool perches on the corner of the village, overlooking the dry arroyo, 150 feet below.
The "festival" was in fact a poetry slam, something I have heard of but had not seen. Paul Sprawl performed twice during the weekend, accompanied by Leralee, his fiancee, who danced wildly and beautifully to his music and sang harmony on a few songs. Paulo appeared throughout the weekend, his small, quiet form, crowned white, was distinct from all the young bustle of poets and attendees. As I watched the poet finalists perform, I realized this event is a revival of the stage. It opened up a world of word performance in my mind's eye. One of the most memorable poems (there were many) was entitled: The Peach is a Very Sexy Fruit. Before you think, "duh," it was the performance that made it memorable, and the hilarity of the poet's comparisons to all other fruits. The poets poured themselves into their performances; my body responded to them. Arm hair stood on end, a liquid sensation in my spine told me: this is real. this is vital.
The Saturday night ended with a fire performance a la the Mad Hatter's Tea Party. The wind was fierce the whole weekend, so the troupe performed under a grand archway. Paul, Leralee, Adam and I danced to recorded latin music afterward, gleeful under the stars, swept by the wind and everyone's energy.
I met Amaryllis in the kitchen where I did our dishes. I was shy to speak Spanish, but finally made an overture, "Habla usted Espanol?" even though I knew she did. I always fear that the person I speak to in Spanish will somehow be offended, but that has never actually happened. Amaryllis was very friendly, and ignored my rusty language skills, asking me questions, offering to scrub the frying pan that won't let go of it's eggs, telling me about her children. It was a small wonderful moment, that dishwashing hour.
As the festivities wound down on Sunday morning, the 4 of us went for a swim in the pool. Nothing like bathing in cold water in the desert to put a smile on your face. We played keep-away and other games for a long time. I was hopelessly outdone by everyone else, my swimming strength being beginner at best. Nevertheless, fun it was.
In stationary buildings with several rooms, people tend to congregate in rooms not meant for gathering: hallways, kitchen floors, bathroom doorways. On Sunday afternoon, I witnessed a new version of this: we congregated not in the van with seats and comfortable floors, but rather stood outside in the parking lot, talking and laughing in the sun for over an hour.
Paul and Leralee were headed to Prescott, where friends George and Susan live, and George's brother Dan hosts a radio show. We volunteered to drive Paul and Leralee to Prescott, and hang with them for a few days. We debated whether two extra people would put us over the edge with our dinky little engine, and decided it would not. We sent some stuff with George in his truck, and piled the rest into the van.
Arcosanti, it turns out, is an artist's village and performance venue. Situated on one side of a canyon, its round, cement structures didn't jump out at me as especially exemplary of alternative urban design, though the shapes: huge arches and domes in every orientation, are compelling. The large room behind the stage reminded me of UC Santa Cruz. A hiking trail leads down into the gorge and back up on the other side, where the village appears more integrated as one conceptual manifestation. The living quarters are set down in the canyon, away from the amphitheater, studios and dining commons. A large swimming pool perches on the corner of the village, overlooking the dry arroyo, 150 feet below.
The "festival" was in fact a poetry slam, something I have heard of but had not seen. Paul Sprawl performed twice during the weekend, accompanied by Leralee, his fiancee, who danced wildly and beautifully to his music and sang harmony on a few songs. Paulo appeared throughout the weekend, his small, quiet form, crowned white, was distinct from all the young bustle of poets and attendees. As I watched the poet finalists perform, I realized this event is a revival of the stage. It opened up a world of word performance in my mind's eye. One of the most memorable poems (there were many) was entitled: The Peach is a Very Sexy Fruit. Before you think, "duh," it was the performance that made it memorable, and the hilarity of the poet's comparisons to all other fruits. The poets poured themselves into their performances; my body responded to them. Arm hair stood on end, a liquid sensation in my spine told me: this is real. this is vital.
The Saturday night ended with a fire performance a la the Mad Hatter's Tea Party. The wind was fierce the whole weekend, so the troupe performed under a grand archway. Paul, Leralee, Adam and I danced to recorded latin music afterward, gleeful under the stars, swept by the wind and everyone's energy.
I met Amaryllis in the kitchen where I did our dishes. I was shy to speak Spanish, but finally made an overture, "Habla usted Espanol?" even though I knew she did. I always fear that the person I speak to in Spanish will somehow be offended, but that has never actually happened. Amaryllis was very friendly, and ignored my rusty language skills, asking me questions, offering to scrub the frying pan that won't let go of it's eggs, telling me about her children. It was a small wonderful moment, that dishwashing hour.
As the festivities wound down on Sunday morning, the 4 of us went for a swim in the pool. Nothing like bathing in cold water in the desert to put a smile on your face. We played keep-away and other games for a long time. I was hopelessly outdone by everyone else, my swimming strength being beginner at best. Nevertheless, fun it was.
In stationary buildings with several rooms, people tend to congregate in rooms not meant for gathering: hallways, kitchen floors, bathroom doorways. On Sunday afternoon, I witnessed a new version of this: we congregated not in the van with seats and comfortable floors, but rather stood outside in the parking lot, talking and laughing in the sun for over an hour.
Paul and Leralee were headed to Prescott, where friends George and Susan live, and George's brother Dan hosts a radio show. We volunteered to drive Paul and Leralee to Prescott, and hang with them for a few days. We debated whether two extra people would put us over the edge with our dinky little engine, and decided it would not. We sent some stuff with George in his truck, and piled the rest into the van.
Friday, May 27, 2005
Climatic Considerations
As we left Vegas a feeling of relief began to waft over me. But it did not reach full force until we had climbed to 5,000 feet above sea level, where I could feel the mercifully cool air out the window, and see rolling green hills all around us.
After much furrowing of brows, Adam and I decided on our destination (with the help of a friend who's been there): Flagstaff, AZ. At 7,000 feet, the climate would be tolerable - even pleasant! After the Sierras, Saline and Vegas, climate had shown itself to be of utmost importance. Without basic temperature comfort, we realized how difficult working (Adam on WebGlow stuff, me on writing and both of us just doing normal everyday stuff) would be on this trip.
As we drove in to town, my spirits lifted. I dig this town. We arrived a bit late to eat at our restaurant of choice (a Thai place recommended on Chowhound). But, we found a brewery with good food by asking around. This was our first of many instances that we heard, "go to the other side of the tracks."
We stayed that night at a funky hotel where our friend Emily has stayed before. It was a little funkier than we originally thought: ready to save a few bucks and get a shared bathroom, I discovered the shared bathroom had no sink. Maybe it's because I was pretty tired by that point, but I suddenly insisted on getting the room with a bathroom. We could have just gone downstairs to the visitor's bathroom for the sink, and in retrospect, that would have been fine. But it made the place less funky and a little more enjoyable, and it seemed worth it at the time.
I tried trout and eggs the next morning, apparently a common dish as we're in trout fishing country. I think that a fresh-caught trout would taste worlds better than the trout I ate at this restaurant. In fact, nothing at the restaurant was good. Strike 2, but the climate and laid back vibe and pleasant surroundings of Flagstaff make up for it.
Adam discovered at some point in our trip planning phase (more of a six-month constant event) that WalMart allows overnight camping in their parking lots. Ever since then, he was anxious to try this out. I was not so enthused, given that...it's WalMart...and it's a parking lot. But, it is free. We got some camping recommendations from a woman we met while parked in a thicket of pines re-organizing our van, putting on the black-felted curtains, and re-wiring our various power chargers to come up through the dash. We felt somewhat inclined to stick around town, however, and a little leery of guerilla camping on forest service and other roads. So, we found the WalMart and chose a spot. Unfortunately, we ended up needing something and went into the monstrosity to get it. I felt an immediate wave of depression upon entering. It was worse than the Costco (there's one in Santa Cruz). I said afterward that I hoped to never go inside again, knowing we may well camp at more of them during our trip.
We spent the next night there as well, and this time rented a DVD at the nearby blockbuster to watch on Adam's laptop. I have been known to look down on this practice: watching movies while camping. But, I have since relented and now feel that life on the road is different from a week camping in the desert, where the stars are more appealing to me than a flick I can watch at home.
We discovered a coffeehouse and I promptly decided I would like to live there (which we sort of did for 2 days). The photography adorning the walls had me looking thrice, the people were lively and friendly, and the food was uniquely delicious. I had couscous with fruit and nuts for breakfast. I guy with 3-inch long hair, all sticking straight up, came up to ask us how our internet connection was going. (It was spotty, but we had the cell modem and used that instead).
I went food shopping for the first time since Sacramento's Whole Foods. I was very happy to find a store with organically raised chicken and the like. We dug Flagstaff.
After much furrowing of brows, Adam and I decided on our destination (with the help of a friend who's been there): Flagstaff, AZ. At 7,000 feet, the climate would be tolerable - even pleasant! After the Sierras, Saline and Vegas, climate had shown itself to be of utmost importance. Without basic temperature comfort, we realized how difficult working (Adam on WebGlow stuff, me on writing and both of us just doing normal everyday stuff) would be on this trip.
As we drove in to town, my spirits lifted. I dig this town. We arrived a bit late to eat at our restaurant of choice (a Thai place recommended on Chowhound). But, we found a brewery with good food by asking around. This was our first of many instances that we heard, "go to the other side of the tracks."
We stayed that night at a funky hotel where our friend Emily has stayed before. It was a little funkier than we originally thought: ready to save a few bucks and get a shared bathroom, I discovered the shared bathroom had no sink. Maybe it's because I was pretty tired by that point, but I suddenly insisted on getting the room with a bathroom. We could have just gone downstairs to the visitor's bathroom for the sink, and in retrospect, that would have been fine. But it made the place less funky and a little more enjoyable, and it seemed worth it at the time.
I tried trout and eggs the next morning, apparently a common dish as we're in trout fishing country. I think that a fresh-caught trout would taste worlds better than the trout I ate at this restaurant. In fact, nothing at the restaurant was good. Strike 2, but the climate and laid back vibe and pleasant surroundings of Flagstaff make up for it.
Adam discovered at some point in our trip planning phase (more of a six-month constant event) that WalMart allows overnight camping in their parking lots. Ever since then, he was anxious to try this out. I was not so enthused, given that...it's WalMart...and it's a parking lot. But, it is free. We got some camping recommendations from a woman we met while parked in a thicket of pines re-organizing our van, putting on the black-felted curtains, and re-wiring our various power chargers to come up through the dash. We felt somewhat inclined to stick around town, however, and a little leery of guerilla camping on forest service and other roads. So, we found the WalMart and chose a spot. Unfortunately, we ended up needing something and went into the monstrosity to get it. I felt an immediate wave of depression upon entering. It was worse than the Costco (there's one in Santa Cruz). I said afterward that I hoped to never go inside again, knowing we may well camp at more of them during our trip.
We spent the next night there as well, and this time rented a DVD at the nearby blockbuster to watch on Adam's laptop. I have been known to look down on this practice: watching movies while camping. But, I have since relented and now feel that life on the road is different from a week camping in the desert, where the stars are more appealing to me than a flick I can watch at home.
We discovered a coffeehouse and I promptly decided I would like to live there (which we sort of did for 2 days). The photography adorning the walls had me looking thrice, the people were lively and friendly, and the food was uniquely delicious. I had couscous with fruit and nuts for breakfast. I guy with 3-inch long hair, all sticking straight up, came up to ask us how our internet connection was going. (It was spotty, but we had the cell modem and used that instead).
I went food shopping for the first time since Sacramento's Whole Foods. I was very happy to find a store with organically raised chicken and the like. We dug Flagstaff.
Tuesday, May 24, 2005
From Really Hot to...Really Hot (but with air conditioning)
We drove 10 hours from Saline Valley Lower Warm Springs to Vegas, from 6:15 am to 4:15 pm. The heat only got worse. We stopped at Panamint Springs, to pee and make sandwiches, but not to buy gas or eat at their restaurant, as their prime location at the edge of the developed part of the Park seems to have turned them into quite arrogant and uncaring folk. Adam and I had the misfortune of staying at their campground and eating at their restaurant a couple years ago, thinking that camping was allowed at nearby Darwin Falls (which is not the case).
There was a huge biker group thronging the place as we arrived to eat lunch. A trailer advertised their motored brigade in a vibrant, painted scene on its facade. "New and shiny" was the underlying message I read. I wonder if there's a place on earth where new and shiny, in any human context, is not alluring. Sure, sure, there are those who favor the old and shabby, but often the old and shabby is discovered anew, hence the excitement. I revise: new and/or shiny.
Further East on the 190, we stopped at Stovepipe Wells, where Adam and I once slept in a sandstorm, for which our tent was no match. Very, very hot by this time (it was about 10:30 in the morning), we winced in the sun to get from car to store, where air conditioning blessed our skin and we breathed sighs of relief. Since they had no Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie Ice Cream, and we knew the ice cream novelties in the freezer box would not satisfy us, we settled for various kinds of iced tea and caramel pretzels (which were stale, but I kept eating them just to make sure). I also labored over whether to buy a turquoise and silver ring, which I finally did. As we approached the cash register, the man behind it greeted us in slow motion:
How you young ladies doin'?
Fine, we say, smiling.
What can I do for you, square dancer? He said to Emily.
Stifling a chuckle, we bring forth our items and pay. It's so hot, we say.
Well, now, you gotta drink lots of water, he says. And go real slow. And you gotta use sun block. Especially you, he said to me. You're melon is weak. (melon - hello?) Even I use sunscreen, he continues. And I'm pretty dark! (his skin is the color of the ice cream I had hoped they would have).
On the walk back to the car, we realized: Oh, melanin.
Back in the sauna van, we went about 40 more miles to Furnace Creek Visitor Center, where Adam and I bought our yearlong national park pass, Emily and I bought postcards, and we looked at flower and scat books. Out of Death Valley, we headed for Shoshone, where Emily had read about a cool solar internet cafe on Chowhound, a good place to find good eats recommendations all over the US. Shoshone turned out to be about 1/2 a block long. I think there were 2 other buildings besides the Cafe C'est Si Bon, where we had delicious mango-coconut-pineapple-banana smoothies, basked in the air conditioning, chatted with David the owner, discovered that the solar internet connection advertised is not quite operational yet, and met Pizza, his Vietnamese pot-bellied pig. Pizza was very cute and let us pet her bristly black hair.
We arrived in Vegas, finally found Emily's aunt Kathy's house (the GPS went a bit crazy for a while there), and began to settle in for our 2 1/2 day sanctuary in air conditioning. It was 107 outside. We ate lots of good food at restaurants all over the city, did laundry, slept well, and watched parts of Star Wars on DVD.
Despite the swell digs, we were happy to head out of the extreme desert towards Arizona high country on Tuesday morning. I was sad to say goodbye to our wonderful traveling companion, Emily.
There was a huge biker group thronging the place as we arrived to eat lunch. A trailer advertised their motored brigade in a vibrant, painted scene on its facade. "New and shiny" was the underlying message I read. I wonder if there's a place on earth where new and shiny, in any human context, is not alluring. Sure, sure, there are those who favor the old and shabby, but often the old and shabby is discovered anew, hence the excitement. I revise: new and/or shiny.
Further East on the 190, we stopped at Stovepipe Wells, where Adam and I once slept in a sandstorm, for which our tent was no match. Very, very hot by this time (it was about 10:30 in the morning), we winced in the sun to get from car to store, where air conditioning blessed our skin and we breathed sighs of relief. Since they had no Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Fudge Brownie Ice Cream, and we knew the ice cream novelties in the freezer box would not satisfy us, we settled for various kinds of iced tea and caramel pretzels (which were stale, but I kept eating them just to make sure). I also labored over whether to buy a turquoise and silver ring, which I finally did. As we approached the cash register, the man behind it greeted us in slow motion:
How you young ladies doin'?
Fine, we say, smiling.
What can I do for you, square dancer? He said to Emily.
Stifling a chuckle, we bring forth our items and pay. It's so hot, we say.
Well, now, you gotta drink lots of water, he says. And go real slow. And you gotta use sun block. Especially you, he said to me. You're melon is weak. (melon - hello?) Even I use sunscreen, he continues. And I'm pretty dark! (his skin is the color of the ice cream I had hoped they would have).
On the walk back to the car, we realized: Oh, melanin.
Back in the sauna van, we went about 40 more miles to Furnace Creek Visitor Center, where Adam and I bought our yearlong national park pass, Emily and I bought postcards, and we looked at flower and scat books. Out of Death Valley, we headed for Shoshone, where Emily had read about a cool solar internet cafe on Chowhound, a good place to find good eats recommendations all over the US. Shoshone turned out to be about 1/2 a block long. I think there were 2 other buildings besides the Cafe C'est Si Bon, where we had delicious mango-coconut-pineapple-banana smoothies, basked in the air conditioning, chatted with David the owner, discovered that the solar internet connection advertised is not quite operational yet, and met Pizza, his Vietnamese pot-bellied pig. Pizza was very cute and let us pet her bristly black hair.
We arrived in Vegas, finally found Emily's aunt Kathy's house (the GPS went a bit crazy for a while there), and began to settle in for our 2 1/2 day sanctuary in air conditioning. It was 107 outside. We ate lots of good food at restaurants all over the city, did laundry, slept well, and watched parts of Star Wars on DVD.
Despite the swell digs, we were happy to head out of the extreme desert towards Arizona high country on Tuesday morning. I was sad to say goodbye to our wonderful traveling companion, Emily.
Saturday, May 21, 2005
Valley of Heat and Salt
At long last, late on Thursday afternoon, we made it to the Lower Warm Springs oasis in Saline Valley. After 50 miles of desert driving, hot springs are really the last thing on your mind. But, the palm trees and lawn were quite a sight. When we arrived, men and women lay about on the lawn, in sun and shade....with fly swatters. As we discovered, the flies bite. They were particularly fond of Emily, who was not impressed with them in the least. Two people, a couple who barely spoke the entire time we were there, were soaking in the 104-degree tub. Keep in mind, it's 90 degrees in the shade here, 105 in the sun. They had a shower, and we heard there was a cool tub somewhere, but didn't see it in the immediate vicinity.
We were all rather worn out, but somehow managed to find a good camp spot without dying first, determined the best shade orientation (with the help of Rick and his dog iva), and parked the van. Emily and i collapsed in camp chairs in the shade and couldn't move until the sun went down. Adam set out to get the satellite dish pointed and our various electronic gear plugged in and powered. Many grunts later, he came around the corner of the van to report that it was working. This was a momentous occasion, as it was the first time Adam pointed the dish (the first several tries at home, after many hours, were unsuccessful) without assistance. Since we were all operating at about quarter mast by then, a passerby would not have been able to tell we were celebrating anything.
At about dusk, the infamous but as yet unseen (by me during the 4 times i've been to death Valley) feral burros tromped into the camp. iva (our neighbor Rick's dog), being a fiercely loyal Healer, made a ferocious little scene and kept them at a distance. At the tubs, about 100 feet from our campsite, there were signs warning of extensive burro damage if the night gates were not closed to keep them out of the springs area. We set up our roll-up camp table and got the outdoor stove working after turning it upside down. We had chicken stir-fry for dinner. Emily had the novel idea of marinating the chicken in our vanilla cognac. it turned out nicely.
We spent Friday mostly being acutely aware of sweat rolling down our bodies. during the morning and early afternoon, we stayed in the van to avoid the sun and the biting flies at the springs. Emily is allergic to grass, making the lawn option beset with two discomforts, not outweighed by the shade. We moved as little as possible: fingers on keyboards, knitting needles, sewing needles, seam rippers, etc. Late in the afternoon, Rick offered to show us where the cool pool was. We had forgotten about it entirely since he told us about it the day before, mentioning that he takes his dog for a swim in it. He assured us there was very little dog hair. Hidden underneath low desert brush was a two-foot deep, 80-degree pool. it was heaven. We suddenly felt glee instead of heat oppression. We stayed in it for about an hour.
That night, we discovered that the refrigerator in the van had gone on strike (we think it was the heat). Realizing our fresh food (including some uncooked meat) had little life left if any, discussion ensued as to how long we were willing to withstand the trials of this place. Too hot to hike except at night, too hot to go in the springs except at night, too hot to keep our food viable, too hot to sleep well, biting flies to keep us away from the shade of the palm trees...we finally resolved to hit the road as early as possible the next morning. We packed everything that night and awoke at 5:30. in the dim light, and by the moon, i could take in the beauty of the landscape. Mountains everywhere, lavender in the new light, encircling the flat, white valley floor, dotted with the small green leaves of creosote bush.
On the drive out, we discovered the namesake of this valley: a large saline lake, thronged with birds. We wended our way up Grapevine Canyon and stopped by a small stream to feel the cool air, and to take pictures of green bugs on cactus pads and each other. As trying as our first visit to Saline Valley was, i was sad to leave. i would love to return in April.
We were all rather worn out, but somehow managed to find a good camp spot without dying first, determined the best shade orientation (with the help of Rick and his dog iva), and parked the van. Emily and i collapsed in camp chairs in the shade and couldn't move until the sun went down. Adam set out to get the satellite dish pointed and our various electronic gear plugged in and powered. Many grunts later, he came around the corner of the van to report that it was working. This was a momentous occasion, as it was the first time Adam pointed the dish (the first several tries at home, after many hours, were unsuccessful) without assistance. Since we were all operating at about quarter mast by then, a passerby would not have been able to tell we were celebrating anything.
At about dusk, the infamous but as yet unseen (by me during the 4 times i've been to death Valley) feral burros tromped into the camp. iva (our neighbor Rick's dog), being a fiercely loyal Healer, made a ferocious little scene and kept them at a distance. At the tubs, about 100 feet from our campsite, there were signs warning of extensive burro damage if the night gates were not closed to keep them out of the springs area. We set up our roll-up camp table and got the outdoor stove working after turning it upside down. We had chicken stir-fry for dinner. Emily had the novel idea of marinating the chicken in our vanilla cognac. it turned out nicely.
We spent Friday mostly being acutely aware of sweat rolling down our bodies. during the morning and early afternoon, we stayed in the van to avoid the sun and the biting flies at the springs. Emily is allergic to grass, making the lawn option beset with two discomforts, not outweighed by the shade. We moved as little as possible: fingers on keyboards, knitting needles, sewing needles, seam rippers, etc. Late in the afternoon, Rick offered to show us where the cool pool was. We had forgotten about it entirely since he told us about it the day before, mentioning that he takes his dog for a swim in it. He assured us there was very little dog hair. Hidden underneath low desert brush was a two-foot deep, 80-degree pool. it was heaven. We suddenly felt glee instead of heat oppression. We stayed in it for about an hour.
That night, we discovered that the refrigerator in the van had gone on strike (we think it was the heat). Realizing our fresh food (including some uncooked meat) had little life left if any, discussion ensued as to how long we were willing to withstand the trials of this place. Too hot to hike except at night, too hot to go in the springs except at night, too hot to keep our food viable, too hot to sleep well, biting flies to keep us away from the shade of the palm trees...we finally resolved to hit the road as early as possible the next morning. We packed everything that night and awoke at 5:30. in the dim light, and by the moon, i could take in the beauty of the landscape. Mountains everywhere, lavender in the new light, encircling the flat, white valley floor, dotted with the small green leaves of creosote bush.
On the drive out, we discovered the namesake of this valley: a large saline lake, thronged with birds. We wended our way up Grapevine Canyon and stopped by a small stream to feel the cool air, and to take pictures of green bugs on cactus pads and each other. As trying as our first visit to Saline Valley was, i was sad to leave. i would love to return in April.
Thursday, May 19, 2005
Pebble Blues and Chicken Guts
It's Wednesday morning. We're sailing south on 395. We stop in Bishop - the last town of some consequence (and cheaper gas prices) on our trip into the desert - to fill our gas and drinking water tanks. We're on the last stretch of pavement before the real driving begins. We find the faded wooden sign for Death Valley Road. Our excitement grows as we wend our way through wildflowers and small brown hills. We see the sign for Saline Valley road. It warns us there are no services for 100 miles. We continue on. This isn't so bad. We heard the road was good this year, but this is nothing compared to the road to the Racetrack in Death Valley - 30 miles of teeth-chattering washboard. This can't even be called washboard. That must be Cowhorn Valley, I say, as we round a high corner and head down a steep hill, just 4 miles down the road. The hidden, oval valley looks quite beautiful and peaceful in the sunlight. Isn't this lovely.
What's that sound? What's that smoke? Uh-oh.... Spewing from the rear driver's side tire is a LOT of air. At first we thought it was worse: a leak in the propane tank. Phew, it's just the tire. We roll to a thumpy halt at the bottom of the hill overlooking Cowhorn Valley. Thankfully, we bought a tire repair kit before heading in. We are suddenly very glad that we brought the humongous car jack with us. The three of us are standing around the tire. The hole bubbles through the spit we used in lieu of a huge tire bath. I read the repair kit directions aloud. Emily opens the box of brown goo (aka gummy bears). Adam threads the goo through the skewer and pokes it in the hole. One quarter turn, then down goes the goo and out comes the skewer. We saw off the tips with a razor blade. The hole sputters. Another goo goes down - way down - it disappeared. Oops. Another goo - if it doesn't work with this one, then it's not gonna. We hold our breaths and saw off the next set of tips. The dreaded whistling returns. Much growling ensues.
On to plan B: Adam dives under the front of the van to get the spare detached from its secure ride post. It's a very secure ride post. On with the spare, off with jack. Emily and I take a turn at the foot pump to get the spare tire to the correct pressure. The guage on the pump is not accurate, so I keep checking it and then madly pump away. It would have made entertaining video footage. (We're getting better at grabbing the camera at such times). We decided not to risk further venturing into the desert with no spare, and reluctantly turned back for Big Pine (the last town of hardly any consequence before the road into the valley). It suddenly seems a more daunting adventure than we had thought.
After much discussion, we decide not to camp on the gravel road. Instead we drive all the way out to 395, hoping we'll find a decent campground in Big Pine, and we can also find a tire repair shop there. If not, then we'll have to go to Bishop, 15 miles further North. We're in luck: a fairly empty campground, only $10/night, next to a creek, with some trees to shade us. The Sierras are there to remind us how small and fortunate we are. We BBQ some chicken. We saute some vegetables. We eat. We find out the 76 station has a mechanic who repairs tires. We need more ice. Emily and Adam head off down the road on foot, in darkness (we had misplaced our headlamps) to get some ice. They come back as I'm drying the dinner dishes, saying it was a lot further than they thought, but that the horses along the way were quite pettable. They head off in the van. We have some vanilla cognac on ice. Emily slept under the stars, very happy that the weather is warm enough for that. We're beginning to get a sense for how warm it will be in the valley.
Morning comes and we get to the tire shop just after they open. In not time, the hole is revealed to be about 1 1/4 inches long! Unfixable. Dude. Here's the thing: with a syncro (what they call a 4-wheel drive vanagon), you must have 4 matching tires, or the 4-wheel drive mechanism gets screwed up. The tires on our van are discontinued. This means 5 new tires (a bunch of moola) or 1 new one with the possibility of dropping the drive train on paved road if we get a flat. Emily and I are now reading about hot springs nearby that do not require a 50-mile drive on sketchy, unpaved road. Adam is not so easily dissuaded. Adam calls around to every tire shop in Bishop and also to the mechanic back in Santa Cruz at Volks Cafe. He finds the right size tire in Bishop, though not the same kind we have. We get back on the road.
As we arrive at the shop on the side of the highway, Em and I realize it would be far better to dispose of chicken bones here in town than to carry them around with us in the desert where no garbage trucks go. No time like the present - delaying any further is just silly. So we tote the cooler into the shade of the building, scrounge for sharp knives, chicken breasts, and our flexible cutting surface. Kneeling on either side of the cooler, we carve 2 pounds of meat from bone, wash the cutlery et al in the shop sink, plop the breasts into a Tupperware, and we're ready before the spare is installed. Adam shot some video for posterity.
Back on track, we take the dirt road to Saline with a bit of trepidation. We round the corner of our latest setback and hold our breaths. We passed without incident. We realized how odd it is that we got a flat - it's no more than a fire road. Hardly hair-raising considering the other Death Valley roads we've traversed.
What's that sound? What's that smoke? Uh-oh.... Spewing from the rear driver's side tire is a LOT of air. At first we thought it was worse: a leak in the propane tank. Phew, it's just the tire. We roll to a thumpy halt at the bottom of the hill overlooking Cowhorn Valley. Thankfully, we bought a tire repair kit before heading in. We are suddenly very glad that we brought the humongous car jack with us. The three of us are standing around the tire. The hole bubbles through the spit we used in lieu of a huge tire bath. I read the repair kit directions aloud. Emily opens the box of brown goo (aka gummy bears). Adam threads the goo through the skewer and pokes it in the hole. One quarter turn, then down goes the goo and out comes the skewer. We saw off the tips with a razor blade. The hole sputters. Another goo goes down - way down - it disappeared. Oops. Another goo - if it doesn't work with this one, then it's not gonna. We hold our breaths and saw off the next set of tips. The dreaded whistling returns. Much growling ensues.
On to plan B: Adam dives under the front of the van to get the spare detached from its secure ride post. It's a very secure ride post. On with the spare, off with jack. Emily and I take a turn at the foot pump to get the spare tire to the correct pressure. The guage on the pump is not accurate, so I keep checking it and then madly pump away. It would have made entertaining video footage. (We're getting better at grabbing the camera at such times). We decided not to risk further venturing into the desert with no spare, and reluctantly turned back for Big Pine (the last town of hardly any consequence before the road into the valley). It suddenly seems a more daunting adventure than we had thought.
After much discussion, we decide not to camp on the gravel road. Instead we drive all the way out to 395, hoping we'll find a decent campground in Big Pine, and we can also find a tire repair shop there. If not, then we'll have to go to Bishop, 15 miles further North. We're in luck: a fairly empty campground, only $10/night, next to a creek, with some trees to shade us. The Sierras are there to remind us how small and fortunate we are. We BBQ some chicken. We saute some vegetables. We eat. We find out the 76 station has a mechanic who repairs tires. We need more ice. Emily and Adam head off down the road on foot, in darkness (we had misplaced our headlamps) to get some ice. They come back as I'm drying the dinner dishes, saying it was a lot further than they thought, but that the horses along the way were quite pettable. They head off in the van. We have some vanilla cognac on ice. Emily slept under the stars, very happy that the weather is warm enough for that. We're beginning to get a sense for how warm it will be in the valley.
Morning comes and we get to the tire shop just after they open. In not time, the hole is revealed to be about 1 1/4 inches long! Unfixable. Dude. Here's the thing: with a syncro (what they call a 4-wheel drive vanagon), you must have 4 matching tires, or the 4-wheel drive mechanism gets screwed up. The tires on our van are discontinued. This means 5 new tires (a bunch of moola) or 1 new one with the possibility of dropping the drive train on paved road if we get a flat. Emily and I are now reading about hot springs nearby that do not require a 50-mile drive on sketchy, unpaved road. Adam is not so easily dissuaded. Adam calls around to every tire shop in Bishop and also to the mechanic back in Santa Cruz at Volks Cafe. He finds the right size tire in Bishop, though not the same kind we have. We get back on the road.
As we arrive at the shop on the side of the highway, Em and I realize it would be far better to dispose of chicken bones here in town than to carry them around with us in the desert where no garbage trucks go. No time like the present - delaying any further is just silly. So we tote the cooler into the shade of the building, scrounge for sharp knives, chicken breasts, and our flexible cutting surface. Kneeling on either side of the cooler, we carve 2 pounds of meat from bone, wash the cutlery et al in the shop sink, plop the breasts into a Tupperware, and we're ready before the spare is installed. Adam shot some video for posterity.
Back on track, we take the dirt road to Saline with a bit of trepidation. We round the corner of our latest setback and hold our breaths. We passed without incident. We realized how odd it is that we got a flat - it's no more than a fire road. Hardly hair-raising considering the other Death Valley roads we've traversed.
Tuesday, May 17, 2005
Epic Beginning
Moving out of our 6 years-lived-in, 1400 square foot apartment was an episode I will hopefully soon forget, though not so much that I also forget its lessons: Too much accumulation of stuff will not end well; It's far too easy to accumulate too much stuff - it takes work and discipline to avoid; Two weeks is not enough time to end a 3-year job at an organization I care about and pack up the house in an unstressed state while your mate has work to do during those last couple weeks and has been overwhelmed with the arduous logistics of trip planning for a couple months already; Each new element of stress compounds the total weight and affects every aspect of life; Help from friends is necessary at some point and will ease the stress significantly.
After a relaxing, fun-filled, and sometimes hectic (madly sewing black felt on the few remaining curtains on Sunday morning, hours at the beach on Saturday finally getting this satellite dish connected - thanks to Adam and Neal for your remarkable stamina!) weekend at the Russian River with 12 of our friends, we headed out with our good friend Emily on Sunday afternoon for a brief stop in Sacramento to drop some stuff off with our good friend Hans (there was no way we were taking the vacuum cleaner!), do some errands and get our stuff in moveable condition.
Hoping to move two stones with one trogdor, we stopped a couple places on the way to Hans's house. First stop was successful: return stuff to REI and buy the right outdoor stove 1 minute before the end of their sale, just before closing. The next stop: pick up our laptop case shipped to a FedExKinkos downtown (no, Kinko's employees are not anymore knowledgeable since the merger, but we'll report back on this later - perhaps it's too soon to see an effect). This stone was stubborn and would not budge. Having heard from an employee at this particular branch of the famed bad service copy shop-turned shipping center that they are open till 11 pm, we arrived a few minutes past 6 to discover: a locked door and an oblivious employee on the other side. Adam called them from his cell phone. They (for the third time) said they don't even accept packages. Growl. YES, you do accept packages and there's one waiting for me there; lemme talk to Tim. Tim, the only one who knew about the package in the whole joint, refused to let us in cause yada, yada, yada. Dude. Bummed. Reluctantly, we admitted defeat and trudged back to the van it took us a while to park since we're not used to parking with the trailer.
We had a lovely Indian dinner with Hans. The family who owned the place was very gracious and loving. We were the only ones in the restaurant. Nice and quiet.
From the strip mall heaven that is Sacramento, but more importantly from our friend Hans's very comfortable and welcome home, the three of us headed Southeast on Monday, May 17th. We had spent the entire day unloading and re-loading the van, getting rid of some extraneous stuff, cleaning out camelbacks that still had playa dust on them, searching in vain for the fabric store I swore I saw at an nearby intersection, working on the van curtains, cooking food, and shopping for our week-long venture to the desert. We ate our delicious BBQ chicken sandwiches in the Whole Foods parking lot at about 8 pm. Our ultimate destination
(to stay for 5 days): Saline Valley, in Death Valley National Park.
We had delusions of making it 4 hours from Sacramento to Bridgeport, and camping that night next to Travertine hotsprings. But we got tired and camped at Sand Flat on the American River in the Sierras, two hours away. It was COLD. I thought to myself as I hurried between pod and van with various toiletry and clothing and bedding items: Cold camping is not so happening. We need to get somewhere warmer. We crashed out and woke up the next morning one of about 4 vehicles in camp. The river was so loud we could barely hear each other inside the van. I got up and spent some time staring at the river in many directions. Rivers are not very familiar to me. The San Lorenzo in Santa Cruz doesn't really count to me as a river. It trickles rather than flows. As I gazed at the rapids, I noticed the dull brown water turned sparkly topaz for brief moments as it collided with granite boulders beneath. Em and Adam woke up and we snapped some photos of each other on the bridge over the river. We waved goodbye to the elderly couple who manage the camp, winking at the lap dog inside the man's coat, and headed off toward Tahoe.
South Lake Tahoe turned out to be a bit of a time warp. We ate a yummy breakfast at Bert's Cafe (at first, I thought it said Berf's Cafe, as did Emily, which was not so appetizing, but luckily we re-read it and noticed all the cars parked outside). They had real maple syrup and small-grid waffles (this earns quite a few points in my book). We did errands, Adam worked a bit at Starbucks (where they were doing interviews that Em and Adam can tell you more about - apparently they were quite funny).
At last on the road again, we arrived in Bridgeport and made our way to Travertine, highly recommended by Hans. It was early evening when we arrived. A few cars were parked near the upper pool, but there was only one man in sight, soaking in the spring, his wolf-dog prowling nearby. We eagerly disrobed and joined him. The air was cool and the tub was about 105 - perfect. The travertine, through which the steaming water bubbled up and coursed toward the pool, reminded me of Yellowstone's mineral-crusted geyser chimneys and terraces. Not 5 feet away from our spots in the 2-foot deep warmth, bright rust-colored stone and a tiny stream of water camouflaged rags that someone had placed to divert the stream a bit and cool down the pool. Turns out the guy, I'll call him Ridge, lives in Bridgeport (a very small town between the White and Inyo Mountains) and is a writer. His day job is construction. He has just finished building his house. He did not envy our traveling ways, saying he loves being home. He even expressed measured doubt about Trogdor getting us into Saline Valley.
We drove down hill a ways, out of the restricted area near the springs, to set up camp. A few other spring-goers were camped in the small hills around us. Emily and I set out to use our tiny grill (it fits in a briefcase) to make fresh hamburgers and sweet potato wedges for dinner. We quickly discovered that 3 lighters do not a fire make. All were malfunctioning. We had no matches. Adam, or should I say - McGuyver - jumped at the chance to perform pyrotechnic feats with gasoline, jumper cables, and a car battery. We realized shortly that we were unwittingly part of Strong Bad's science project: the effects of gasoline on fire! Much to our surprise the effect of gasoline on fire is not much. Sparks, sparks, more sparks. No flames. Apparently, the charcoal soaked it all up and there was no vapor left to catch. So we tried paper. Finally, a flame! A little more coaxing and we finally had a coal lit, and began to cook. About an hour later we enjoyed quite scrumptious teriyaki hamburgers, occasionally undercooked but still yummy sweet potatoes, and a deliciously dressed salad.
Morning came early. We packed up and trounced back to the springs for one more soak. This time, we hiked down the hill a hundred feet or so to the silt-bottomed pool. This time we had total privacy. The snowy mountains loomed to the west and the travertine shown bright under the trickle of its geothermal spring. We discovered why the upper pool was lined with cement: gushy silt. It was nice and soft, though. Relaxed, we piled into the van and continued Southeast toward Saline Valley.
After a relaxing, fun-filled, and sometimes hectic (madly sewing black felt on the few remaining curtains on Sunday morning, hours at the beach on Saturday finally getting this satellite dish connected - thanks to Adam and Neal for your remarkable stamina!) weekend at the Russian River with 12 of our friends, we headed out with our good friend Emily on Sunday afternoon for a brief stop in Sacramento to drop some stuff off with our good friend Hans (there was no way we were taking the vacuum cleaner!), do some errands and get our stuff in moveable condition.
Hoping to move two stones with one trogdor, we stopped a couple places on the way to Hans's house. First stop was successful: return stuff to REI and buy the right outdoor stove 1 minute before the end of their sale, just before closing. The next stop: pick up our laptop case shipped to a FedExKinkos downtown (no, Kinko's employees are not anymore knowledgeable since the merger, but we'll report back on this later - perhaps it's too soon to see an effect). This stone was stubborn and would not budge. Having heard from an employee at this particular branch of the famed bad service copy shop-turned shipping center that they are open till 11 pm, we arrived a few minutes past 6 to discover: a locked door and an oblivious employee on the other side. Adam called them from his cell phone. They (for the third time) said they don't even accept packages. Growl. YES, you do accept packages and there's one waiting for me there; lemme talk to Tim. Tim, the only one who knew about the package in the whole joint, refused to let us in cause yada, yada, yada. Dude. Bummed. Reluctantly, we admitted defeat and trudged back to the van it took us a while to park since we're not used to parking with the trailer.
We had a lovely Indian dinner with Hans. The family who owned the place was very gracious and loving. We were the only ones in the restaurant. Nice and quiet.
From the strip mall heaven that is Sacramento, but more importantly from our friend Hans's very comfortable and welcome home, the three of us headed Southeast on Monday, May 17th. We had spent the entire day unloading and re-loading the van, getting rid of some extraneous stuff, cleaning out camelbacks that still had playa dust on them, searching in vain for the fabric store I swore I saw at an nearby intersection, working on the van curtains, cooking food, and shopping for our week-long venture to the desert. We ate our delicious BBQ chicken sandwiches in the Whole Foods parking lot at about 8 pm. Our ultimate destination
(to stay for 5 days): Saline Valley, in Death Valley National Park.
We had delusions of making it 4 hours from Sacramento to Bridgeport, and camping that night next to Travertine hotsprings. But we got tired and camped at Sand Flat on the American River in the Sierras, two hours away. It was COLD. I thought to myself as I hurried between pod and van with various toiletry and clothing and bedding items: Cold camping is not so happening. We need to get somewhere warmer. We crashed out and woke up the next morning one of about 4 vehicles in camp. The river was so loud we could barely hear each other inside the van. I got up and spent some time staring at the river in many directions. Rivers are not very familiar to me. The San Lorenzo in Santa Cruz doesn't really count to me as a river. It trickles rather than flows. As I gazed at the rapids, I noticed the dull brown water turned sparkly topaz for brief moments as it collided with granite boulders beneath. Em and Adam woke up and we snapped some photos of each other on the bridge over the river. We waved goodbye to the elderly couple who manage the camp, winking at the lap dog inside the man's coat, and headed off toward Tahoe.
South Lake Tahoe turned out to be a bit of a time warp. We ate a yummy breakfast at Bert's Cafe (at first, I thought it said Berf's Cafe, as did Emily, which was not so appetizing, but luckily we re-read it and noticed all the cars parked outside). They had real maple syrup and small-grid waffles (this earns quite a few points in my book). We did errands, Adam worked a bit at Starbucks (where they were doing interviews that Em and Adam can tell you more about - apparently they were quite funny).
At last on the road again, we arrived in Bridgeport and made our way to Travertine, highly recommended by Hans. It was early evening when we arrived. A few cars were parked near the upper pool, but there was only one man in sight, soaking in the spring, his wolf-dog prowling nearby. We eagerly disrobed and joined him. The air was cool and the tub was about 105 - perfect. The travertine, through which the steaming water bubbled up and coursed toward the pool, reminded me of Yellowstone's mineral-crusted geyser chimneys and terraces. Not 5 feet away from our spots in the 2-foot deep warmth, bright rust-colored stone and a tiny stream of water camouflaged rags that someone had placed to divert the stream a bit and cool down the pool. Turns out the guy, I'll call him Ridge, lives in Bridgeport (a very small town between the White and Inyo Mountains) and is a writer. His day job is construction. He has just finished building his house. He did not envy our traveling ways, saying he loves being home. He even expressed measured doubt about Trogdor getting us into Saline Valley.
We drove down hill a ways, out of the restricted area near the springs, to set up camp. A few other spring-goers were camped in the small hills around us. Emily and I set out to use our tiny grill (it fits in a briefcase) to make fresh hamburgers and sweet potato wedges for dinner. We quickly discovered that 3 lighters do not a fire make. All were malfunctioning. We had no matches. Adam, or should I say - McGuyver - jumped at the chance to perform pyrotechnic feats with gasoline, jumper cables, and a car battery. We realized shortly that we were unwittingly part of Strong Bad's science project: the effects of gasoline on fire! Much to our surprise the effect of gasoline on fire is not much. Sparks, sparks, more sparks. No flames. Apparently, the charcoal soaked it all up and there was no vapor left to catch. So we tried paper. Finally, a flame! A little more coaxing and we finally had a coal lit, and began to cook. About an hour later we enjoyed quite scrumptious teriyaki hamburgers, occasionally undercooked but still yummy sweet potatoes, and a deliciously dressed salad.
Morning came early. We packed up and trounced back to the springs for one more soak. This time, we hiked down the hill a hundred feet or so to the silt-bottomed pool. This time we had total privacy. The snowy mountains loomed to the west and the travertine shown bright under the trickle of its geothermal spring. We discovered why the upper pool was lined with cement: gushy silt. It was nice and soft, though. Relaxed, we piled into the van and continued Southeast toward Saline Valley.
Monday, May 16, 2005
Welcome to my Cattywompus World
Welcome!
What's this "catty meets wompus" business, did you say?
Here are the ordered machinations of my mind that resulted in the blog name you blinked at:
Those of you who know me well also know that cattywompus is one of my favorite words. Much to my surprise, I discovered recently that it's a slang word rather than a bona-fide OED word.
Cattywompus means, as my dear friend Jon and I both found from the same source:
cattywompus adj
1. Diagonally across from something else. ("Her house was conveniently located cattywompus from the post office." Submitted by Melanie Arnold, Meri and Angie Knight, IN, USA, 26-12-2002.
2. Out of alignment. ("I need to get my wheels aligned. They're sitting all cattywompus.")
How nicely paradoxical to say that a word meaning out of alignment is meeting itself - almost as if aligning itself and misaligning itself at the same time. I think this an apt description of my state of being much of the time, so I have grown more enamored of my off the cuff blog name since thinking about it more along these definitive lines.
Another reason I like it: it's fun to say! For the record, separating catty from wompus is by no means meant to create a layered meaning of "catty," as in, "my, but you're catty with me today." There is no implied meaning on my part my catty and clumsy or thumping (or whatever you might read into "wompus") parts of me are meeting in writings herein.
What's this "catty meets wompus" business, did you say?
Here are the ordered machinations of my mind that resulted in the blog name you blinked at:
Those of you who know me well also know that cattywompus is one of my favorite words. Much to my surprise, I discovered recently that it's a slang word rather than a bona-fide OED word.
Cattywompus means, as my dear friend Jon and I both found from the same source:
cattywompus adj
1. Diagonally across from something else. ("Her house was conveniently located cattywompus from the post office." Submitted by Melanie Arnold, Meri and Angie Knight, IN, USA, 26-12-2002.
2. Out of alignment. ("I need to get my wheels aligned. They're sitting all cattywompus.")
How nicely paradoxical to say that a word meaning out of alignment is meeting itself - almost as if aligning itself and misaligning itself at the same time. I think this an apt description of my state of being much of the time, so I have grown more enamored of my off the cuff blog name since thinking about it more along these definitive lines.
Another reason I like it: it's fun to say! For the record, separating catty from wompus is by no means meant to create a layered meaning of "catty," as in, "my, but you're catty with me today." There is no implied meaning on my part my catty and clumsy or thumping (or whatever you might read into "wompus") parts of me are meeting in writings herein.
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