Occupation of Independence

 It seemed like another loop might work out, because the two-track was somewhat smooth on the low end.  So the next day we biked up to the top of the alluvial fan on a major road, and descended on that two-track. Yuk!  Well, it could have been worse.  The rocks could have been sharp as well as 'baby head' sized.  Just think what steel spokes have to put up with!  I worried about puncturing the rear bike tire because it was a thin, light-duty tire. All the way down I thought about what the geologists claim:  that large rocks drop out first (from the stream flow down the alluvial fan), and smaller rocks make it further down.  So maybe I had something to look forward to.  But would reality actually live up to " book larnin' " for a change? It happened more gradually than I wanted and the change wasn't completely uniform, but by the time we reached the bottom of the two-track, it had become four times smoother than at the top. The alluvial fan was no longer a rand

 I have yet to dig out and use the Mr. Buddy heater this winter, despite the inside temperature falling close to 40 F at night.  Is that a silly bit of mock heroism?  Some people would think so. Maybe I should virtue signal that I am resisting the propane heater to show solidarity with my NATO brothers and sisters in Europe.  But nobody would believe that.  A certain amount of austerity is implicit in any camping experience -- if that has no appeal, you might as well go back to a stick and brick house in the suburbs.  Recall the quote that I have given several times from Joseph Wood Krutch, in his biography of Samuel Johnson: Many men, oppressed with a sense that most of life is [mere illusion] and trivial, have sought in various ways to make contact with "reality." To some, that has meant hardship in remote places; to some, as to Thoreau, solitude and simplicity; to still others, it has meant the search for God in mystical experience.  To Johnson it meant reminding himself o

Long-suffering readers of this blog know that no autumn/winter is complete without a rant against the Pacific Time Zone.  Of course we could focus on good news: Algodones, Baja California Norte, Mexico has (unofficially?) seceded from the Pacific Time Zone and joined Yuma time.  So has Winterhaven, California, USA.   Let's hope that Blythe CA and the towns close to Colorado River in Nevada do the same thing.   The ultimate triumph would be to win over Clark County NV to the cause of Truth and Justice. I refuse to update my van's clock and computer to Pacific Time.  What an annoyance it is, every year, to undo the absurdity of Daylight Savings Time on the first Sunday of November.  Then in a few days I travel between St. George UT and Mesquite NV.  That involves going through the 'Bermuda Triangle' or 'Twilight Zone' of time zone changes in the far northwestern corner of Arizona.  (Arizona is the same time as St. George for half the year, and the same as Mesquite

Almost Lake Mead.  Mountains don't crash down into a river, all at once.  They seep downward and outward, along the glaciers of gravel known as 'alluvial fans.'   I would rather call them gravel ramps. Riding a bike up these ramps is one of the under-rated pleasures of the outdoors.  Locally a smooth gravel road heads straight up the ramp.  It is quite a grunt.  My little dog was lashed to the bike and trotted at the perfect speed to keep up with my second-gear pedaling. I wish there was more second-gear pedaling in mountainous areas, instead of grinding uphill in first gear, and then coasting down, with your disk brakes getting hot.  What a fine thing it is to reach the top in second gear, give the dog a drink of water, put her in the milk crate, and then "eat your bicycle dessert" by coasting downhill, hardly pedaling at all. Gravel ramps can be remarkably uniform in slope, unless they are cut by an arroyo.  There is something addictive for man and dog to move t