Occupation of Independence

At a recent RV boondocking campsite the view back to town was brown, hazy and uninteresting, at least during the day. But when the sun went down it became delightful -- I could see the city lights of Prescott. It is ironic that an RV boondocker, who doesn't particularly care for cities or for camping in them, would enjoy city lights at night. One of the prettiest sights at night is to camp a few miles above a casino town like Laughlin, NV, and appreciate the contrast between the cold black desert sky and the hot neon strip. Maybe it heightens your sense of separateness to have a view of a distant man-swarm. But aren't boondockers supposed to rhapsodize about the brightness and beauty of the stars? I would have been a flunky Babylonian. I don't really walk about at night and look at the stars, even though there are few people who have better opportunities to do so than a RV boondocker. But looking back to town on this particular night, I wondered Why Not? P

It's been a while since I experienced amnesia while pedaling up a hill. It couldn't have happened at a better time. Last night I had a conversation with a fellow camper at the RV park and he predicted mass migration of Ari-cali-fornicaters to my Little Pueblo. "I'm in the first wave," he proudly predicted. Later that night I had a nightmare: that I went back to work. Perhaps I'm a little sensitive on the issue of population growth after seeing one of my hangouts, St. George UT, go through a population explosion. I don't care to ever see the town again. But who needs these thoughts, especially when I can't do anything about it. So up the hill I went, and went into a trance-like, internal rant. When I came to, I had just climbed a thousand feet and had no conscious memory of doing it. Near the continental divide I saw a cycle tourist from the Netherlands resting. I stopped to talk to him for awhile. He stank as bad as a javelina. I have to keep remind

Now I think we can all agree that this blog does not need another photo of another New Mexico dump. But I can't help myself.

North of Prescott, AZ. We were camping in the headwaters of the Verde River, at the base of the Mogollon Rim, the southwestern edge of the Colorado Plateau. The dogs and I took off on a mountain bike ride to Hell Canyon, right from the travel trailer's door. How can you resist a place-name like that?  We were on a flat stretch of overgrazed ground. You don't really see much of that on western public lands anymore, thanks to the environmental lobby. There! For once, I've given them a well-earned compliment. The dogs loved running on the flat dirt roads on the way to Hell Canyon. We finally arrived at the canyon, at the point of a large railroad bridge and a highway bridge built back in the Depression. Both were picturesque.   Looking at these tracks over Hell Canyon brought an image to mind: the boys playing chicken with a train in Rob Reiner's wonderful movie, "Stand by Me." Since I had missed that experience as a lad, I felt a perverse desire t

This wasn't supposed to happen to me. I don't even know where to get treatment for it. I'm talking about becoming addicted to travel blogs. A journal junkie. No, not RV travel blogs. They're nice folks, but their notion of travel is un-adventuresome to the extreme, as is the case with about any motor-vehicle culture. With RV culture, old age makes it even worse. Nor have I gotten hooked on the young world-vagabonder blogs; hitchhiking around the globe and staying in youth hostels is something I just can't relate to. Rather, it's the bicycle touring blogs that have hooked me, even though I loathe tent camping and high-traffic highways. Perhaps the key to enjoying any subculture is to discount or laugh off 95 percent of it as uninteresting or uncomfortable stereotypes, and then look for the 5 percent that is juicy and interesting. Deja vu helped too. When I was being drawn into dog culture I went to an agility trial for the first time, and was really entertai

You can see a hidden reddishness to the tail. It shows better when they are flying. But if this is a red tailed hawk, why is it so grey instead of the usual brown/black?

My eyes are frequently pulled to small unglamorous birds.

Because of our rainy and snowy winter I got a bit out of shape. This offered me an unusual chance to relive the process of getting in shape in the spring, like I experienced it years ago, back East. It was the sequence of the human machine that interested me. First the quadriceps get stronger. Then aerobic fitness makes a comeback. These two things happen quickly. The last thing on the list, which takes all summer, is lower back strength. It really is the back, and not "thunder thighs," that gets you up the hills.  The second-to-last machine part is the subtle one. The human body must be harnessed correctly in order to efficiently operate a crank-machine like a bicycle. I can't quite remember, but I think it was the classic book on medieval technology by Lynn Townsend White that emphasized how slow the development of the crank was. A crank mechanism converts rotary motion into linear motion, or vica versa.   You might even remember your grandmother powering her Singer

On my standard summer bicycle ride I see this aborted McMansion, sticking out on a rocky knoll as ostentatiously as possible. Nice views, with lots of wind. I've heard different stories but most of them say something about the builder and the owner getting into a fight and just walking away from it. It's quite the eyesore now. Still, it's symbolic of what happened in 2004-2006.

Full time RV boondockers are famous for sleeping around. Perhaps our most interesting bedmate is the industrial economy, which at times can be far more interesting than postcard scenery.  One summer I squatted on a maritime pier on Puget Sound. I was awakened in the middle of night by the bellowing horn of a huge tugboat that had pulled up. I quickly got dressed and staggered around on the pier, still half asleep. The crew was changing shifts. The tugboat's job was to escort football-field-sized oil tankers to a nearby refinery. My eye was drawn to the huge ropes that lashed the tugboat to the pier. At my present boondocking campsite on the east side of Chino Valley, AZ, I am enjoying watching the macho equipment roll in to build another power line. Have you ever thought of the technological miracles of the 1800's: the conversion of mechanical motion into electricity, and thence into so many things? People of a few generations ago went through bigger change

I always like getting the Evil Eye from a curious or annoyed bird, especially from a sexy little Hot Shot like a kestrel.