Menominee loves the desert. We went for walks in the desert and hikes among some big boulders. Menominee had never seen boulders that large before, but she sized one up, leaped onto it, and walked right up its steep surface. Later, she walked back down. (Of course, she does have the advantage of full-time four-wheel drive.) When Menominee walked around a boulder and pulled her leash taut underneath, somehow it got trapped there. I tugged and tugged, but couldn't free it. So I disconnected Menominee from the leash and left it under the boulder! It awaits anyone who wants to try to solve the puzzle of loosening it.
Menominee is a real connoisseur of sand — digging in it to test its consistency, rolling in it as often as the mood strikes her, and of course using it as a bathroom. ("World's biggest litter box.") Most sand doesn't make much noise, but I noticed a type of desert sand that makes a squnching sound as I stepped on it. If I listened closely, I could hear Menominee's paws making tiny squnching sounds as she walked across the sand!
During the week, when the campground was nearly empty, we enjoyed the silence of the desert. Far from any traffic, the only sounds were the occasional call of a bird, howl of a coyote, or the faint sound of an airplane so high you couldn't see it. One day we were surprised to hear the unmistakable sounds of someone playing a bagpipe far, far away.
The desert weather was delightful, with clear blue skies and friendly temperatures. At night the sky was very dark and the stars sparkled beautifully. One night, examining the sky with binoculars, I saw a curious object that looked more like a gray cloud than a star. When I checked on the web, I learned that it's a comet named Holmes.
We spent several days in a campground in Southern California's Joshua Tree National Park. The Joshua Tree is a tall, odd plant that is adapted to life in the desert. (Photos at right.)
Monday, November 26, 2007
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Cruisemaster — The Window Incident
We were driving down a San Diego freeway when suddenly WHAM! glass showered down on my head. Menominee, who had been asleep above my head, jumped for her life. A window had broken — how, we'll never know, although we didn't find a brick with a message attached. The wind whistling in continued to blow glass down on me.
We turned off at the next exit and examined the situation. The window was at the front of the RV, directly over the cab, and fortunately, it was safety glass, so the pieces were like pebbles, with no big knife-like pieces.
Our RV directory listed an RV repair shop about ten miles away, so we drove there slowly on surface streets. The owner took one look and said "Sorry, we can't help you. Tempered safety glass is impossible to get." Then he quietly recommended a plastics store a few miles away. Turned out to be a good recommendation — they were familiar with RV windows and had the skills to make a plastic window to fit. Unfortunately, it was 4pm on a Friday. Fortunately, they were open Saturday mornings.
I covered the window with a piece of cardboard and liberal amounts of duct tape, to keep insects out and Menominee in. We camped that night on a nearby street and the next morning we parked in front of the plastics store and got to work — digging the old glass out of the frame (work gloves and a screwdriver), removing old adhesive from the frame (razor blade), cutting a piece of cardboard to the exact size (carprt knife), and giving the cardboard to the guy at the plastics shop, who was very nice, offering suggestions and a cup of coffee. He cut the plastic, it fit perfectly, I glued it in with lots of silicone window caulk, and he charged me half the estimate. Whew! Happy ending! There are nice people in the world!
The new window has held up fine so far, but still awaits its first real test, when it rains. I'm pretty sure I used so much silicone caulk that it won't leak.
We turned off at the next exit and examined the situation. The window was at the front of the RV, directly over the cab, and fortunately, it was safety glass, so the pieces were like pebbles, with no big knife-like pieces.
Our RV directory listed an RV repair shop about ten miles away, so we drove there slowly on surface streets. The owner took one look and said "Sorry, we can't help you. Tempered safety glass is impossible to get." Then he quietly recommended a plastics store a few miles away. Turned out to be a good recommendation — they were familiar with RV windows and had the skills to make a plastic window to fit. Unfortunately, it was 4pm on a Friday. Fortunately, they were open Saturday mornings.
I covered the window with a piece of cardboard and liberal amounts of duct tape, to keep insects out and Menominee in. We camped that night on a nearby street and the next morning we parked in front of the plastics store and got to work — digging the old glass out of the frame (work gloves and a screwdriver), removing old adhesive from the frame (razor blade), cutting a piece of cardboard to the exact size (carprt knife), and giving the cardboard to the guy at the plastics shop, who was very nice, offering suggestions and a cup of coffee. He cut the plastic, it fit perfectly, I glued it in with lots of silicone window caulk, and he charged me half the estimate. Whew! Happy ending! There are nice people in the world!
The new window has held up fine so far, but still awaits its first real test, when it rains. I'm pretty sure I used so much silicone caulk that it won't leak.
Friday, November 9, 2007
San Diego — After the Fires
We relaxed up on the Central California coast while over a dozen wild fires burned down in Southern California. Days after the winds had died down, hundreds of fire fighters contained all the fires and we ventured back into San Diego county. The air was still a little hazy with smoke, a reminder of what had been.
We returned to the campground on the ocean we had evacuated from the previous week. Although there had been a warning that the fire upwind of here might be unstoppable until it reached the sea, it was five miles short when the ferocious winds died down and the firefighters contained it. The campground and seaside communities were spared.
Sunday morning we attended services at the UU church in Escondido, where one of the fires had destroyed many houses. The subject of the sermon was "Hope," which was the message the congregation needed that morning. It seemed nearly everyone there had been affected by the fire, one way or another — personally, or had neighbors who had been affected, or were active in relief work. One person I talked to felt fortunate that the fire had stopped half a mile from her house. Another said gravely that the fire had come with a quarter mile of hers.
The newspapers were full of stories about the fires. Were they prepared when the fires started? Yes, the Santa Ana winds had been predicted days in advance, which gave local and state government time to mobilize fire fighters and equipment. However, preparations were inadequate, as no one had foreseen the number or ferocity of fires. Only five water-bomber planes were ready to take off when the fires started, far too few to make a difference. A day later, other planes and crews, sitting on the runway ready to fly, couldn't take off because of bureaucratic red tape.
The winds fanned the flames so quickly that the fires overwhelmed all efforts to fight them, in the air and on the ground. Fire fighters were reduced to trying to save one house at a time, and then, after success or failure, moving on down the block.
And yet more people want very much to live here, and many new houses are built every year, in this area threated by persistent drought, horrendous fires and, of course, world-class earthquakes.
We returned to the campground on the ocean we had evacuated from the previous week. Although there had been a warning that the fire upwind of here might be unstoppable until it reached the sea, it was five miles short when the ferocious winds died down and the firefighters contained it. The campground and seaside communities were spared.
Sunday morning we attended services at the UU church in Escondido, where one of the fires had destroyed many houses. The subject of the sermon was "Hope," which was the message the congregation needed that morning. It seemed nearly everyone there had been affected by the fire, one way or another — personally, or had neighbors who had been affected, or were active in relief work. One person I talked to felt fortunate that the fire had stopped half a mile from her house. Another said gravely that the fire had come with a quarter mile of hers.
The newspapers were full of stories about the fires. Were they prepared when the fires started? Yes, the Santa Ana winds had been predicted days in advance, which gave local and state government time to mobilize fire fighters and equipment. However, preparations were inadequate, as no one had foreseen the number or ferocity of fires. Only five water-bomber planes were ready to take off when the fires started, far too few to make a difference. A day later, other planes and crews, sitting on the runway ready to fly, couldn't take off because of bureaucratic red tape.
The winds fanned the flames so quickly that the fires overwhelmed all efforts to fight them, in the air and on the ground. Fire fighters were reduced to trying to save one house at a time, and then, after success or failure, moving on down the block.
And yet more people want very much to live here, and many new houses are built every year, in this area threated by persistent drought, horrendous fires and, of course, world-class earthquakes.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
California — San Diego and the Fires
The deserts were becoming uncomfortably hot, and in accordance with out trip policy — go where the weather is likely to be nice — we headed for the ocean. We spent the night in a state park campground right on the beach north of San Diego. Next day was Sunday and I visited the UU fellowship I'd belonged to, back when I lived in this area. It had changed — new buildings built, old buildings remodeled, new minister, new faces. I chatted with the few people I could find who remembered me from back then.
The weather was gorgeous, bright and sunny with winds from the east. But by late afternoon we noticed smoke blowing in the air, and a phone call from a friend prompted us to listen to the news on the radio. Two wildfires had broken out and were growing, but they were so far away (dozens of miles to the east) that I wasn't worried and went to bed.
By next morning, the situation was very different. The air was thick with smoke, nearly blotting out the sun. Now the news said that new fires were burning, one of them just miles from us, and the strong easterly winds were blowing it in our direction! Yikes! Surely, though, we would be safe at the beach? Maybe not — the news said that the fire might be unstoppable until it reached the ocean. Then came the order to evacuate. We wasted no time in packing up and leaving. The campground, full the night before, was quickly emptying. We got on the road and headed north, away from the fires. We were fortunate that the freeway, Interstate 5, was moving smoothly, and by afternoon we were far from San Diego county and all the fires burning there.
We spent the night at a state park campground in Huntington Beach, in the Los Angeles area. We spoke with others in the campground and it turned out that they, too, were refugees from the San Diego area. That location worked fine for a day, but then the air became smoky again, this time from new fires in Orange and LA counties (more than a dozen altogether). We weren't afraid of the fires, but we didn't want to breathe smoky air — very bad for the lungs — so once again we traveled north, stopping for the night north of Santa Barbara and moving the next day to the coast at Pismo Beach.
Fires like these are no stranger to Southern California. Vegetation is dry and very flammable, even more so because of the extended drought here in the west. The hot, dry winds — locals call them Santa Ana — blow from the east with gusts to 60 mph, fanning the fire and blowing it forward faster than fire fighters can stop it.
I'm reminded that decades ago, Minnesota suffered similar wildfires — for example, the Hinkley fire if 1894. Circumstances were similar: Prolonged drought making vegetation very dry and flammable, and strong, strong dry winds fanning the fire to burn hot and spread rapidly.
It is a humbling experience to flee the fury of nature, when, as Garrison Keillor has said, "Nature is making a serious attempt to kill you."
The weather was gorgeous, bright and sunny with winds from the east. But by late afternoon we noticed smoke blowing in the air, and a phone call from a friend prompted us to listen to the news on the radio. Two wildfires had broken out and were growing, but they were so far away (dozens of miles to the east) that I wasn't worried and went to bed.
By next morning, the situation was very different. The air was thick with smoke, nearly blotting out the sun. Now the news said that new fires were burning, one of them just miles from us, and the strong easterly winds were blowing it in our direction! Yikes! Surely, though, we would be safe at the beach? Maybe not — the news said that the fire might be unstoppable until it reached the ocean. Then came the order to evacuate. We wasted no time in packing up and leaving. The campground, full the night before, was quickly emptying. We got on the road and headed north, away from the fires. We were fortunate that the freeway, Interstate 5, was moving smoothly, and by afternoon we were far from San Diego county and all the fires burning there.
We spent the night at a state park campground in Huntington Beach, in the Los Angeles area. We spoke with others in the campground and it turned out that they, too, were refugees from the San Diego area. That location worked fine for a day, but then the air became smoky again, this time from new fires in Orange and LA counties (more than a dozen altogether). We weren't afraid of the fires, but we didn't want to breathe smoky air — very bad for the lungs — so once again we traveled north, stopping for the night north of Santa Barbara and moving the next day to the coast at Pismo Beach.
Fires like these are no stranger to Southern California. Vegetation is dry and very flammable, even more so because of the extended drought here in the west. The hot, dry winds — locals call them Santa Ana — blow from the east with gusts to 60 mph, fanning the fire and blowing it forward faster than fire fighters can stop it.
I'm reminded that decades ago, Minnesota suffered similar wildfires — for example, the Hinkley fire if 1894. Circumstances were similar: Prolonged drought making vegetation very dry and flammable, and strong, strong dry winds fanning the fire to burn hot and spread rapidly.
It is a humbling experience to flee the fury of nature, when, as Garrison Keillor has said, "Nature is making a serious attempt to kill you."
Monday, October 22, 2007
California — LA and the Desert
Heading south, we bumped into Los Angeles and our one encounter with it was a disaster. They closed Interstate 5, the freeway we needed to get to LA, for several days! When we laboriously navigatged the detours, an LA motorcycle officer gave us a ticket for turning left! Disgusted, we withdrew from LA and never returned.
North of LA the land is desolate mountains and desert, stretching to the Nevada border and beyond. We poked around and explored some interesting back roads north of Ojai, then headed for Lancaster Victorville, and Barstow. The weather was gorgeous — blue skies, highs in the seventies — and the desert landscape was gorgeous too — in its own way, of course. (See Driver's View photo at the bottom of this page.)
Actually, most of California is desert. Oh, the northern coasts get rain, and the mountains get snow, but everything else receives surprisingly little precipitation. The great central valley that stretches for hundreds of miles up the middle of the state, Sacramento, Los Angeles, San Diego. All technically deserts, by amount of rain received. Irrigation has made California what it is today. Without irrigation, there would be no California fruit or vegetables, no LA, Hollywood or San Diego. Rent Jack Nicholson's great movie "Chinatown" (in which he wears a band-aid across the bridge of his nose) for an exciting story about California water.
North of LA the land is desolate mountains and desert, stretching to the Nevada border and beyond. We poked around and explored some interesting back roads north of Ojai, then headed for Lancaster Victorville, and Barstow. The weather was gorgeous — blue skies, highs in the seventies — and the desert landscape was gorgeous too — in its own way, of course. (See Driver's View photo at the bottom of this page.)
Actually, most of California is desert. Oh, the northern coasts get rain, and the mountains get snow, but everything else receives surprisingly little precipitation. The great central valley that stretches for hundreds of miles up the middle of the state, Sacramento, Los Angeles, San Diego. All technically deserts, by amount of rain received. Irrigation has made California what it is today. Without irrigation, there would be no California fruit or vegetables, no LA, Hollywood or San Diego. Rent Jack Nicholson's great movie "Chinatown" (in which he wears a band-aid across the bridge of his nose) for an exciting story about California water.
Thursday, October 11, 2007
California — Down the Coast to Big Sur
Next night we were back on the Pacific Ocean in Bodega Bay, staying in Doran Beach State Park (Recommended), located right on the bay, complete with flashing lighthouse and hooting fog horn. Menominee loved the sandy campsite — rolling in sand, digging in it, peeing in it — and we took long walks exploring the dunes.
Then it was southward on Highway 1 to Point Reyes National Seashore. Although it's close to San Francisco, the park is surprisingly rural and rustic. The road, I swear, hasn't seen new asphalt since the Truman administration, but drive over the hills to the west side and the Pacific Ocean lies spread before you, stretching into the mist at the horizon. A cold wind blew in off the ocean, pushing fog over the road and up the hills, so we didn't stay to sunbathe.
We spent two nights in a state park campground over on the sunny side of the the hills. The park is only about a mile from the San Andreas Fault, infamous for its ferocious earthquakes, but we felt nary a tremor.
Then it was time for the big push. We pumped lots of gas into Cruisemaster and headed over the hills and down the highway toward San Francisco. We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, slithered through the western outskirts of San Fran, and rejoined the coast on Highway 1, which continues to hug the ocean down past Monterey and Santa Cruz.
South of that lies Big Sur, about 90 miles of desolate coastline reached by a very curvy two-lane road carved into a steep mountainside. If you dare take your eyes off the road, you can see spectacular views of the waves hitting the rocky shore hundreds of feet below. You also cross the historic Bixby Bridge, which was built of concrete in 1932 and — despite all the earthquakes since then — still safely carries traffic. (Compare that with a certain steel bridge built in the 1960s which recently fell into the Mississippi.)
The big tourist attraction along the Big Sur coast is the Hearst Castle at San Simeon (Recommended), built by newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst (the Rupert Murdoch of the U.S.). He used his enormous wealth to buy European antiquities — from trapestries and paintings to whole fire places — ship them to San Simeon, and build a castle around them. Julia Morgan was the architect, civil engineer, interior decorator, and landscape designer who turned Hearst's dreams into reality. The project evolved over decades, as Hearst was always coming up with new ideas. His wife lived on the East Coast; he and his mistress, beautiful starlet Marian Davies, hosted lavish parties for Hollywood celebrities at the castle.
From this opulent cathedral to wealth we retired in our RV to a state park campground ($18 for the night).
Then it was southward on Highway 1 to Point Reyes National Seashore. Although it's close to San Francisco, the park is surprisingly rural and rustic. The road, I swear, hasn't seen new asphalt since the Truman administration, but drive over the hills to the west side and the Pacific Ocean lies spread before you, stretching into the mist at the horizon. A cold wind blew in off the ocean, pushing fog over the road and up the hills, so we didn't stay to sunbathe.
We spent two nights in a state park campground over on the sunny side of the the hills. The park is only about a mile from the San Andreas Fault, infamous for its ferocious earthquakes, but we felt nary a tremor.
Then it was time for the big push. We pumped lots of gas into Cruisemaster and headed over the hills and down the highway toward San Francisco. We crossed the Golden Gate Bridge, slithered through the western outskirts of San Fran, and rejoined the coast on Highway 1, which continues to hug the ocean down past Monterey and Santa Cruz.
South of that lies Big Sur, about 90 miles of desolate coastline reached by a very curvy two-lane road carved into a steep mountainside. If you dare take your eyes off the road, you can see spectacular views of the waves hitting the rocky shore hundreds of feet below. You also cross the historic Bixby Bridge, which was built of concrete in 1932 and — despite all the earthquakes since then — still safely carries traffic. (Compare that with a certain steel bridge built in the 1960s which recently fell into the Mississippi.)
The big tourist attraction along the Big Sur coast is the Hearst Castle at San Simeon (Recommended), built by newspaper magnate William Randolph Hearst (the Rupert Murdoch of the U.S.). He used his enormous wealth to buy European antiquities — from trapestries and paintings to whole fire places — ship them to San Simeon, and build a castle around them. Julia Morgan was the architect, civil engineer, interior decorator, and landscape designer who turned Hearst's dreams into reality. The project evolved over decades, as Hearst was always coming up with new ideas. His wife lived on the East Coast; he and his mistress, beautiful starlet Marian Davies, hosted lavish parties for Hollywood celebrities at the castle.
From this opulent cathedral to wealth we retired in our RV to a state park campground ($18 for the night).
Friday, October 5, 2007
California — Sacramento
Driving across Sonoma and Napa valleys, we passed field after field filled with carefully arranged grape vines growing in impossibly dry dirt. The sun was bright and the air was hot and dry as we made our way to Sacramento, the state capital.
Sacramento is a lively, growing city with clean streets and sidewalks, winter weather that seldom dips below freezing, and hot summers (over 100°, but it's a dry heat). Sacramento is also a city of big trees, which are beautiful but kept blocking the satellite signals our GPS needed to direct us. It became confused, uttering such complete nonsense that we turned it off and navigatged by the seat of our pants. After a bit of driving around, we found Mary H. and Brian at their cheerful duplex apartment. We sat in the shade sipping cold drinks while Menominee explored the back yard.
Next day, Mary and I went to see the State Railroad Museum (Recommended). It's in a beautiful building displaying about a dozen shiny, fully restored engines and cars, which we wandered around at our leisure, reminiscing over train-related events from our childhoods, talking with the volunteer interpreters, and catching the last half of a narrated tour. We walked through a Pullman car (the kind with upper and lower berths that you see in old black-and-white movies), sat in the cab of a million-pound steam locomotive, and viewed the solid gold spike that's a duplicate of the one driven to complete the transcontinental railroad.
One evening we went to a delightful restaurant called the Tower (Recommended), which served delicious food (I had Korean BBQ ribs) outdoors under trees in the warm air. We sat and ate and talked and it felt like we were in paradise. California is like that.
Napa
Leaving Sacramento, we stayed overnight in the town of Napa and Sunday morning I found the UU fellowship there. The minister welcomed me at the door and after the service several members of the congregation chatted with me and invited me to their potluck picnic in a park. Well! How could I resist? I stopped at a grocery for chips and salsa and had a great time with the very happy and friendly people at the picnic.
Sacramento is a lively, growing city with clean streets and sidewalks, winter weather that seldom dips below freezing, and hot summers (over 100°, but it's a dry heat). Sacramento is also a city of big trees, which are beautiful but kept blocking the satellite signals our GPS needed to direct us. It became confused, uttering such complete nonsense that we turned it off and navigatged by the seat of our pants. After a bit of driving around, we found Mary H. and Brian at their cheerful duplex apartment. We sat in the shade sipping cold drinks while Menominee explored the back yard.
Next day, Mary and I went to see the State Railroad Museum (Recommended). It's in a beautiful building displaying about a dozen shiny, fully restored engines and cars, which we wandered around at our leisure, reminiscing over train-related events from our childhoods, talking with the volunteer interpreters, and catching the last half of a narrated tour. We walked through a Pullman car (the kind with upper and lower berths that you see in old black-and-white movies), sat in the cab of a million-pound steam locomotive, and viewed the solid gold spike that's a duplicate of the one driven to complete the transcontinental railroad.
One evening we went to a delightful restaurant called the Tower (Recommended), which served delicious food (I had Korean BBQ ribs) outdoors under trees in the warm air. We sat and ate and talked and it felt like we were in paradise. California is like that.
Napa
Leaving Sacramento, we stayed overnight in the town of Napa and Sunday morning I found the UU fellowship there. The minister welcomed me at the door and after the service several members of the congregation chatted with me and invited me to their potluck picnic in a park. Well! How could I resist? I stopped at a grocery for chips and salsa and had a great time with the very happy and friendly people at the picnic.
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