Occupation of Independence

Chino Valley/Jerome AZ. Autumn's warmth is disappearing quickly. I must head south. But I want one last hike in some things I really hate to give up: grass, honest-to-goodness soil, ponderosas, and oaks.  Feeling a bit weepy and nostalgic, we went on our "last" hike before skedaddling south to the lower elevations. In fact I become a weepy sap every autumn, just before I migrate south. A carpet of small oak leaves on the trail reminded me of how fond I've always been of oak trees, leaves, and wood. We were hiking in the midst of some no-name hills; volcanic knolls actually. The rocks were sharp, dog-paw destroyers, but there was enough soil and grass to keep the dogs happy. It was only a short hike, but steep. I never cease to be amazed at how little you have to climb before everything looks different. Our hiking club specializes in saddle-bagging, instead of the more usual peak-bagging, and indeed we found several saddles between the volcanic knolls. The lig

Not too badly out of focus, considering what's happening. Dig those talons.

Recently I signed on as a volunteer to work on a section of the Continental Divide Trail. I really haven't done any volunteer work during my retirement, although I have looked into it from time to time. It surprised me what a formal organization they were. I got officious-looking letters from headquarters informing me that I'd be camping four nights and working eight hours per day on it. Then I bowed out. But why? It had seemed like such a fine idea. At first I thought it was the logistics of getting there, camping, or finding a dog-sitter. But there was something deeper. Volunteering can seem humiliating, especially when you have to deal with salaried "volunteer coordinators." (Bureaucratic young squirts who live in a spreadsheet dream world.) Time is money, and to volunteer your time seems connected to the idea that your time and life are worthless. I have been turned off by volunteering for animal shelters, as well. The impression I got was that they thought th

My van's "Check Engine" light came on, once upon a time. Many dollars later, after several mechanics has slavishly looked at the diagnostic computer for hours and needlessly replaced various sensors, a clever mechanic found that the wiring harness had been rubbing a bolt and the outer insulation had been worn off, thus shorting a couple wires. I could have spared myself all this by poking around the engine compartment with a flashlight, and eliminating the rubbing with a few cents of tape. O Woe! Rig maintenance is no small expense to an RVer. It puts you at the mercy of repair shops who see your out-of-state plates. But if the School of Hard Knocks is not the ideal education for an independent lifestyle, what is? I'm not talking about "How to be an RVer 101" workshops. Long ago I read a book about early retirement that asserted that the ideal education was high school shop class cum Shakespeare. Perhaps the author meant that blue collar skills wou