Home Is Just Another Camping Place

Georgetown, Texas


I started home by way of Creede, Summitville, Platoro.

It is a desolately beautiful 60 mile drive up dirt roads from Southfork over Stony Pass down into Platoro. The road is rough but passable for my 27 foot fifth wheel. Four wheel drive is very useful to control the jittering wheels.

I had a near miss when an old Bronco came round a corner like he was on a turnpike, skidded up on the mountain side, and proceeded on in a cloud of dust like nothing had happened. I met 6 vehicles in all on this road. All the rest were more circumspect.

If you ever really want to get away from it all, talk to the Forest Service about leasing Elwood Cabin. Apart from some buildings at the cleanup operation near the Summitville mine, this well kept modern cabin was the only human habitation I encountered between turning off Highway 149 and Stony Pass, a distance of perhaps 50 miles.

It sits in an immense valley all by itself below Elwood Pass. At the Skyline Lodge in Platoro, I learned that the house is leased by the week by the Forest service during the summer to various people who like to ride their horses out in the middle of nowhere, and to the occasional intrepid snowmobiler in the winter.

Winter is serious business here. The entire valley of the Conejos River is abandoned from Highway 17 to Stony Pass. I suspect, though I do not know, that the EPA project on the other side is moribund then also. In winter this would be an area of a thousand square miles, with nothing but snow, rocks, and trees.

The Elwood Cabin sits right in the middle of it.

Better drag a sled. If you run out of something, there ain't no more. No fish in the creeks. Toxic metals from the Summitville mine did them in.

Bet this would be a great place to give up cigarettes.

I went back down to Chama again, ate at Vera's, stayed at the Rio Chama RV park. There is a sweet smell in the air here, almost like honeysuckle. It seems to come from the cottonwoods as they give up their leaves.

Traveling, you get used to having only temporary relationships. The waitress at the Skyline lodge in Platoro, who was so pleasant and brought me breakfast though it was almost time for lunch, the guests I laughed with over fish stories from around the world, all are far away now, and further tomorrow. Might as well be in another universe.

They are not, though. They remain in my recent memory, as much a part of me as the scent of those trees coming in the window. They travel with me as long as I remember them.

On the way south towards Taos I turned off to see Heron Lake. The Chama River has been dammed there, and the result is picturesque. It is a wide lake, beneath high bluffs, and the water is a peculiar turquoise that seems lighter and darker in places. If I were further north, I would suspect that a glacial milt stains it, but there are no glaciers here.

It must be some dissolved mineral welling up from the drowned canyon. There is a state park here, with a couple of dusty, empty campgrounds. A typical desert setting, apart from the lake, with bushes and sandy soil, a few slender trees.

At Tres Piedras I decided to skip Taos once more, and turned right on 285 toward Espanola. After about 30 miles I rolled into Ojo Caliente. There's a nice spa at the hot spring. There are thirty RV spaces, $18 for full hookups, but only $10 for camping. They have various pools named for different minerals - the iron pool, the arsenic pool, the lithium fountain - but I suspect the same water flows through all of them.

Currently the hottest is the iron pool, and two hours in there was just what I needed. It was there I met Michael, a 60 year old unreconstructed bull hippie with braided gray hair, who is currently living in his own sort of RV, a Volvo station wagon. Michael used to work as a photographer for CBS in Washington covering the Interior Department, but now blends part time work on Public Radio in Santa Fe with occasional chores. He rebuilt the dining chairs for the hotel restaurant, and was paid in free soaks and meals for a while.

He recommended the salmon baked in a paper sack, but I ended up with the stuffed portobello. It all looked good to me.

The best thing at the spa besides the waters is the front porch of the hotel. Many of the guests lined up there on a varied group of benches and rockers. It was fine to sit and watch the light fade from the sky, listening to people talk. It's odd how people can fight and be gentle with each other at the same time.

Somewhat later, about half way through my second ale, a full white moon rose over the trees.

Next morning I walked up to Don Chiaspe's for huevos rancheros con chile verde, and then pulled out to start the trip back home in earnest. I crossed New Mexico that day and half of Texas the next.

I slept in a roadside park near Roswell. Bright lights and a rumbling in the air above woke me up around 3 am, but it was only a diesel tractor coming in. No UFO's this trip.

I rolled into Georgetown about 7 pm on the 3rd.

I have traveled all over the world outside of Asia, and have always looked forward to that feeling of coming home, the end of scheduled sights and tours, the beginning of emptying the detritus of travel into closets and washing machine, resuming the habits and stability of home, little ceremonies that made me ready to just be myself again.

This time was it was different. As I drove up in front of the house, it might have been just another camping place. I could easily have crawled into bed in the trailer, but I made myself unload a few clothes, a few groceries, go into the house. It was bizarre.

Could I really park the trailer, after almost 2 months travel out of the last three? Or was I only a visitor here? The familiar shelves, furniture, paintings, all of it felt like something rented from a store. Returning home was more like getting a leased life than a lease on life.

I guess in a few days I'll get used to everything again. But should I? When I look out these windows, the landscape never changes.

How strange that is.


Bob

The One That Got Away

Lake City


I ate my first brook trout tonight, at least as far as I know. Caught it myself, cooked it in garlic and butter. Tasted pretty good, though next time I think olive oil and onions might be even better.

But let me tell you 'bout the one that got away.....

Last week, despite fear that fishing might be just another way to ruin a walk, I hired a guide and gear for $150 and went fly fishing on Big Blue Creek. To my surprise I found traipsing up a creek trying to be smarter than a fish quite delightful.

I may have jinxed myself, blurting out "I didn't think it would be this easy!". Doug just grinned and said nothing. Doug is a former fast attack submariner who decided after 15 years of corporate life to retire to Lake City and be a full time fisherman.

He was an excellent teacher, turning up rocks casually to show me caddis and mayfly larvae scuttling across the underside. He pointed out mature mayflies floating on the surface of the creek. He seemed to be able to spot fish where I saw only rocks and ripples. He told me how trout habitually feed in the slack water downstream of rocks, or more precisely at the border of fast and slow water.

He made it all seem simple. Pick your fly according to whether Mayfly, Caddis, or Stonefly were rising in the stream. Cast upstream into "productive water", which seems to mean where trout are able to hover in slow water with the least effort, right next to where fast water is bringing them dinner. Float your fly in, don't slap the water.

Above all, DON'T SCARE THE FISH.

I found I have a little bit of talent for this, at least the casting part. I caught 4 brook trout and lost one fly. Water temperature was 50 degrees, which means they weren't biting much. Doug said it was ok to keep the brooks and browns, but not the rainbows, which are still relatively rare around here. A few years ago an epidemic of whirling disease decimated the population.

We just caught and released everything. I was sufficiently impressed that I showed up at Dan's Fly Shop the next morning and bought $600 worth of gear and books.

Dan's got a great life. All he does is fish, prepare to fish, and prepare others to fish. I guess he eats fish, but all he wants the rest of us to do is catch and release. The day after buying gear, I went back to the Big Blue alone, and again caught 4 brookies and lost one fly. At least I was holding my own. These trout ran 8-10 inches, and I released all of them. But by the end of the day, I wished I had kept them to eat.

While I was buying flies at Dan's I overheard someone singing the praises of Cebolla Creek, and how they had seen some big browns. So today I went over Slumgullion Pass and tried my luck.

I pulled into the parking area at the junction of Brush and Cebolla Creeks at about 1pm, and parked next to a red Jeep Cherokee. I walked upstream past several beaver dams to where the Cebolla was running steeper and deeper, and started fishing. It was tricky because of lowhanging trees and flygrabbing bushes, and lots of boulders. I lost a couple of flies before I caught a brookie in a pool just below a fallen tree.

The brookie was in the 8-10 inch range. It takes a couple or three to make a real meal. I put this one in a gallon ziplock bag with a little water, and put bag and all into the left front pocket of my vest. For an hour afterward, every now and then, I could feel him flutter against my heart.

But no more fish came to join him.

The algae on the rocks was very slippery, the water often thigh high, and more than once I nearly fell full length backwards into the stream. Finally I gave up, about 4 pm, and made my way up the bank to the trail. There I quickly found out that algae isn't near as slippery to felt soles as dry loose dirt.

I was tired, but the weight of that one trout felt good against my chest.

After about an hour's hike, I got back to Brush creek, just below the parking lot. I took a look at it, and liked what I saw. It had everything Doug said to watch for - plenty of broad stones blocking moderately brisk water, and quiet pools below them. How did I miss this when I parked? I decided to lay a Parachute Adams right on top of one of those pools.

The strike was immediate. Another brookie, somewhat larger. I didn't get a chance to measure him. I had to reach the forceps way down his gullet to remove the hook.

"That's a good'un, " she said, nearly making me drop fish and forceps into the water. Where the hell did she come from? Then I looked up and saw a very nice looking woman, about 45, with short red hair and green eyes. She was standing on the bank behind, watching me gape at her. She probably gets a lot of that.

"Thanks." Such eloquence. You dummy. "How...how long have you been here?"

"All afternoon. But now I've got to get back to work."

"Where's that?"

"Albuquerque."

"You driving all that way tonight?"

"Yes. I'm used to it. I just couldn't quit fishing."

"Catch many?"

"Six. Small ones."

"Didn't see you. Up or down?"

"Down." Which explained why I didn't see her. Old Soul, I thought, you've been fishing in the wrong place.

I put the new trout in the ziplock with the other one, and climbed up the bank to where she was. She gave me a steadying hand up, which felt odd. She was pretty strong. For some reason I forgot all about continuing to quarter the stream like I was supposed to.

Her name was Linda, and she belonged to some sort of group of women anglers. She had been staying in Lake City all week, and somehow I missed seeing her till now. Turned out she knew where Georgetown was. She grew up in Dallas. Her sister even went to Southwestern U., about 3 blocks from my house.

And she owns a motorhome, a 24 foot 1990 Fleetwood she said she's turned into a "chickmobile", with lace curtains, candle holders, incense burners, knick-knacks. Sounds like a perfect horror, but I managed not to tell her that. We talked while she stowed her gear and I followed her around like a puppy dog.

I couldn't for the life of me figure out how to parlay a chance meeting and a short personal history into, say, a last name, or an e-mail address, a phone number, a 20 year marriage, adjoining rooms at the nursing home. That sort of thing.

She got her keys out and hesitated at the driver's door. A shadow seemed to cross her face. Or it could have been these durn polarized lenses.

"Well, nice talking to you."

"Sure thing, Linda. You going straight back?" You already asked that. Think. Think.

"Got to be at work in the morning. I'm not looking forward to it. Well, see yah. Good luck with the fishing."

"Sure. Have a good trip."

Then she got in, backed around, and headed off for the road, leaving a cloud of dust around me. I remembered the fish, flopping against my chest.

Or maybe it was my heart turning over. No, it was the fish. Thinking I better get some more cold water on them, I climbed down into Brush Creek again and opened the ziplock bag slightly.

I guess my mind was elsewhere.

Because right then, at that very moment, one of those trout gave a great muscular flop and leaped half way out of the bag. I clapped my hands together to catch it, but the slippery devil went right through my fingers.

One slap in the water, and it was gone.

Dammit! I held the bag tightly, but it was way too late. The other fish wasn't moving anyway. Dammit!

When I climbed back up on the bank, the dust from her long gone Cherokee hung thin and high, the afternoon sun turning it almost orange. There was an ozone itch in the air, and a faint smell like perfume.

I sneezed. And sneezed.

O well.

Tomorrow is another day.

And that's the story of the one that got away.


Bob

This Full-Timing Thing Is Complicated

Lake City, Colorado


Tonight, for only the 2nd time in a week, I built a fire and ate a good meal outside - ribeye, potatoes, corn on the cob. Then I piled the logs higher, while a half moon rose over the mountain, and a million stars wheeled round the sky. Somewhere in the middle of all that I began to feel a proper measure of my own significance.

I think I've spent most of a lifetime feeling a good bit too full of myself.

For a couple of years now I have been looking forward to simplifying my life - moving into the trailer and rolling round the country. Before I left, some of my coworkers expressed surprise that I would go all that way by myself. I told one guy that I wouldn't mind company, but if I waited till someone came along that could get off as much time as I did, I'd never go anywhere.

By way of experiment this summer, I've been on two month-long trips. In the first, to the Pacific Northwest, I covered 6500 miles in 28 days. Whenever I got bored, I moved on, and in all that time I never felt the onus of being alone. Quite the opposite. I was too busy to feel the need for company.

This trip has been different. Quite consciously I have stayed in one place. I made my way fairly quickly to one of the prettiest places on earth, at the finest time of the year. I've been here a week now. I have intentionally left the time unplanned from day to day. The place is thick with possibilities. I took up fly fishing, which turned out to be delightful. I jeeped up to the continental divide.

I sat and read most of one day, under the speckled shade of aspens, while a steady golden rain of leaves spun down around me.

I am camped on a bluff that juts out into the lake, and I pretty much have the whole peninsula to myself. Every evening the sunset lingers on the surrounding mountains. Nearby a stream pools and falls into the lake, a liquid melody that underlies the call of geese from the darkness below, the scrabbling of small animals under the trees, the occasional hungry hooting of owls above them.

All this ought to be enough to bring peace to anyone. And it does, mostly. But on 3 consecutive nights I felt compelled to abandon the sunset and sit in a local lodge til midnight, talking to strangers and drinking way too much wine. This I could have done at home.

Wait, I am at home.

I think it is harder to be alone in a beautiful place than ugly one. You have no wish to share the ugliness. For the first time in 5 years, I begin to think I will marry again. Surprise, surprise, surprise. This is no trivial enterprise, nor easily done. I am often cranky, and used to having my own way. I suffer fools so poorly that I often turn into one in the process. Finding a congenial companion is no easy trick at any age.

And in March I will be 56.


_______________________________________________________


25 September 01


Well, all that stuff didn't really look so profound this morning. Maudlin, even. I am not actually rolling in self-pity.

In this setting that would be stupid.

It's just that this fulltiming thing is turning out to be more complicated than I thought. I have no need to trade a settled full life for a transient empty one.

I'd rather step up.

So the Grand Plan is going to take a little more work. Meanwhile I can see fish rising in the lake.

I think I will go do something about that.


Bob

Lake San Cristobal

Lake City, Colorado

It has been 4 or 5 years since I have been in this spot, so I had an attenuated memory of how spectacular it is. The view from Engineer Pass rivals Hurricane Ridge in the Olympics. And if you can manage the 7 mile hike up switchbacks to the peak of Mr. Uncompahgre (14309') -- well, you are on top of the world, with whole mountain ranges falling away beneath you.

Lake San Cristobal is the highest natural lake in Colorado, formed by a landslide umpety-ump years ago. The Wupperman Campground is run by Hinsdale County, and sits at 9000 ft. on a bluff along the east side of the lake, surrounded by 12-14000 ft peaks.

All those mountains have a fresh coat of snow this morning. When I got up at 7, the door of my truck was frozen shut, and thick frost on every surface. It was interesting trying to open the frozen padlock on my tool box.

I woke up several times last night, something bothering me, but not enough to come full awake. Finally at 3 am I realized the furnace fan had been blowing a long time, and the trailer wasn't getting any warmer. Before I left home, I turned off the second LP tank because I wanted to know exactly when it ran out.

Well, I found out.

The price of that knowledge was getting up on a frosty night, turning on the other tank, and relighting the water heater. At least, unlike Odin, I didn't have to give an eye for wisdom.

It was almost worth it to see the stars.

On earlier trips, I only used the furnace lightly in the morning and evening, and a 7.5 gallon tank lasted 21 days. I had 7 days on this one when I left home, and I'm 5 days in. The last 3 days have been in the 30's and low 40's at night, and I kept the thermostat at 65 degrees.

So conservatively I'd say I get about a week on a bottle in this sort of crisp fall weather.

The real surprise, though it shouldn't be, is the effect on my batteries. The resting voltage this morning was 12.43V, which usually doesn't happen until the 3rd day. That 5A furnace fan, plus 4-5 hours lighting, used it up in a day. I guess that means I'll have to use the generator about 45 minutes a day to keep the batteries above 75%.

Or else learn to turn off the furnace at night. Duh.

By being profligate, I am learning my limits. After so many years of tenting or living out of the back of a truck, I have found it amazingly seductive that I don't need to be dirty or cold in order to enjoy this sort of scenery. A hot shower every morning puts a new shine on the day. Bacon and eggs with fresh ground coffee ain't bad either.

Whoops! It's only 9 am, and what looked like a thick coat of snow on the peak behind me has completely disappeared! It's only up to 40 degrees in the shade down here, but the sun is bright and powerful. I may take the jeep road over Cinnamon Pass later on, so we'll see how messy it is. On second thought, it might be better to give it a day to dry out.

Goodness. So few decisions, so much time! :)

___________________________________________________

9/19 Lake San Cristobal 7 am


Well, there's no snow on Red Mountain this morning. It glows like a coal in the morning sun. There is a flock of ducks - make that a cacophony of ducks - on the lake below, practicing their takeoffs and landings, and congratulating themselves.

Ooops. Make that a cacophony of geese. One cacophony looks so much like another.

I have a suggestion for anyone living in a trailer. Listen up. Get 24 inches of flexible half inch tubing - the clear kind used for water works fine - and carefully cut it lengthwise, on one side, making a U. Try not to cut yourself, okay? Then force this U up against the sharp aluminum blade that forms the lintel of your front door.

That way you won't stagger around with a gash on top of your head like I did this morning, going "Oh...Oh...OW...OW!!", embarrassing the human race in front of the squirrels and chipmunks.

Just a suggestion.

I tried to leave the trailer and yet take the trailer with me, going out the door. A difficult maneuver at the best of times, and downright impossible with a cup of coffee in your hand. Now I know why that woman sued McDonald's. If my sainted mother were here now, I'd sue her. Or better yet, Fleetwood, for making a trailer suitable only for midgets. Everybody must get sued.

Other than that it's a beautiful morning. It's 32 degrees, frost everywhere. No built up ice on the door, though.

Is that blood up there?

I think I'll take it easy today. I'm still getting used to the altitude. Not to mention the stupidity.



Bob

A Few Notes Of Passing Interest

Between Mora and Angelfire, New Mexico

I've noticed that the black flies here in the mountains are bigger and slower than the ones I'm used to in Texas. And louder. If you happen to leave your door open during your nap, they'll make you dream fitfully in black and white. Old war movies. Spitfires and B-29s.

And I never know when a nap is coming at me, these days.

I bought a fly swatter at the Wal-Mart in Las Vegas, N.M. Actually they came packaged in pairs, which I took as an omen. Never know when you might need back-up.

In all fairness, though, I have to say they are a tough, tenacious bunch. I was particularly impressed with a certain Sampson of their lot. I decided to skip Taos on the way up. It's a good town for walking, but finding a place to park the Behemoth I'm living in just didn't seem attractive to me this time round. The traffic is crazy there around the square, and you can't avoid it.

Perhaps you have noticed that Dapple has become The Behemoth. I guess I'm just not romantic enough to own a Dapple.

I took a winding narrow road out of Mora, past Coyote Creek State Park. When the road opened up a bit approaching Angelfire, I stopped in a turnout, turned round to arrange a nice view of the Sangre de Cristos, and made a sandwich. A few flies got in, so I lay about with the swatter till they granted me a funereal peace.

After I got back in the truck and started off down the hill, I noticed through the windshield that one of these smug odious vermin had made himself a perch exactly where the hood ornament would be, if I had such a thing.

I sped up to 30 mph. He was unconcerned. 40 mph. He couldn't care less. 50 mph. If a fly could yawn, he would. As I approached 60 mph, I saw him hunker down a little on the slick surface of the paint.

Got you now, sucker.

But, as luck would have it, a car slowed down in front of me, approaching a curve, and I had to let up. I didn't want to explain the cause of my injuries to the attending physician.

As I slowed down to 30 mph, that black devil flew away.

But I cannot say blew away. Give him his due. He left calmly, at a time and place of his own choosing.

_________________________________________________________

Chama, New Mexico


As I noted before, I stayed in the Rio Chama RV Park, next to a trestle bridge for the Cumbres and Toltec steam excursion train. The Station is about a half mile west.

While watching the horrible news on TV that evening, I heard a couple of loud spaced reports, like shotguns going off nearby. I thought, "It's black powder season - but in town?"

I went down to the tracks and met one the guys who ride around in golf carts helping people park their houses. He was walking back from the woods along the track.

"Somebody shooting down here?"

"Nah. That was me. Firecrackers. Them bears are tryin' to climb the fence again."

It turns out that a sow and 2 cubs had been getting into the garbage cans, and apparently tore up a screen door the day before. One of the weapons used by the Forest Service to control them is rubber bullets, which are packed with a light powder charge into a 12 gauge shotgun shell. On request, they pass them out in small numbers to residents.

I heard one fellow laughing about his "doofus" neighbor who picked up a few and then realized he only had a 20 gauge to shoot them with.

_______________________________________________________

Pagosa Springs, Colorado


I have been coming to Pagosa to ski for 20 years. I always stayed at the Spa Motel, to make use of the hot spring baths, the swimming pool, and the occasional massage. One of my favorite memories of this place is the time years ago when it snowed so much the ticket office at Wolf Creek was buried, and the whole enterprise shut down for days.

I eventually escaped to Purgatory, pointing my Bronco carefully down the middle of the white space between humps of fencing along the buried highway, hoping to stay on the road. But the night before I left, I spent an interesting hour in the warm outdoor swimming pool, watching those big heavy flakes crowd down out of the black sky, plopping into the pool around me.

I'm sure they didn't really hiss as they hit the water, but that's the way I remember it.

The swimming pool is still ok, but I am sorry to report the indoor soaking pool is not being maintained properly. This may be just one bad day, so check it out if you come through. They give out flannel sheets to wrap up in when you are steaming, and you can lay back on benches and drift off till you cool down and go back in.

The water is still 108 degrees, or maybe more, but when I went it hadn't been cleaned in a while. There was stuff floating on the surface, and it had an oily feel, and the whole room smelled like some sort of nasty soup or old dish water.

The good news is that the place across the street (The Springs) is greatly improved from my last visit. These are a series of outdoor pools (bathing suit required) in tiers down to the river, going from 110 degrees down to tepid. If I were just a little bit younger, I'd have to say the babes in string bikinis ain't so hard to look at, either.

$12 for the day. I'm talking about the pools.

_____________________________________________________

Creede, Colorado


I was wandering desolately down the main street, beseeching complete strangers for access to a phone line so I could e-mail you guys, when I saw a large orange tabby limping across the road. She was collared, tagged, and belled. Her left rear foot was held up high, and it looked like something red stained the paw.

I ducked into the Kentucky Belle, which is a grocery store, and told the clerk it looked like someone's cat was hurt.

"Big orange cat?"

"Yeah."

"That's the Town Cat. She don't belong to anyone special. She got froze to a bridge."

The girl was checking out groceries and talking over her shoulder. She was obviously busy, so I didn't press her, though now I wish I had. This was a healthy animal, with an imperious air only slightly spoiled by her 3 legged gait. On closer inspection, the red stuff on her paw looked like some kind of medicine.

The Town Cat. I guess if you're going to get froze to a bridge, this is the place to do it.



Bob

On And Off The Road

Chama, New Mexico


I've spent a lazy couple of days getting here. I'm staying in the Rio Chama RV Park. I usually don't care for commercial parks, and the only other one I've ever stayed at was sort of a desperation move late at night.

This one is in a lovely cottonwood bottom that glows like flame this time of year. It's all cool shade inside. I came in from Antonito about 9am and caught the Cumbres and Toltec Railroad building steam, had breakfast at Vera's Mexican Kitchen (mmmmmmmm), and was drawn into this RV Park the third time I passed it. I didn't intend to stop this early, since my aging body has a date with the hot springs in Pagosa, but it was all just too quiet, too cool, and too colorful to pass up.

The management has a dedicated credit card line they have graciously made available to me for email, so I will soon see if Bigzoo works from here. I hope to do a little bicycling and reading this afternoon. Nothing too strenuous. Might go Bass Ale fishing in the fridge this evening. Maybe build a fire.

Full hookups here are $18, but they have a monthly rate of $337, and right now I can see spending a month around here some summer. They don't allow any generator use at all, since electricity is available at each site.

You know, I have been going over in my mind what I want retirement to be like. What I would really like to achieve is that feeling I had in my 20's, of being at home in my own skin, comfortable with whatever life threw at me. That was before decades of acquiring jobs, houses, cars, furniture, and other bad habits.

I hope now to shed everything that won't fit into a 27 foot trailer, but that is only the first step. After a couple of years, I hope to shed the trailer too, and reduce my needs to a can-do attitude and whatever goods will fit in a suitcase. Then I'm going round the world for a year or two.

I don't see any reason to settle down in any particular place unless my health demands it. There are lots of places in this world where your money goes a lot farther than the USA.

Anyhow that's what I think is going on with me.

But what I think and what is going on are not always the same thing.


Bob

Dapple Days

1 July 2001
Georgetown, Texas


Well, I am about to embark on a couple of trips that are also a project in process, my shakedown cruise in the 27 foot Mallard 265H I bought back in February. I tried to think of a cute name for the thing, but cute isn't easy for me. Steinbeck called his Rocinante, after Don Quixote's famous steed. I have settled on Dapple, after Sancho Panza's mule.

I figured a little humility was in order. I'm not quixotic enough to think myself a Steinbeck.

I sought and followed a variety of advice on the Web, both in the rec.outdoors.rv-travel newsgroup and elsewhere. I installed a Honda EU1000i generator, 4 golf-cart batteries, assorted shelves and fluorescent lights, a couple of 400W inverters, a TV (shudder), and an expansion tank in the plumbing.

I put in a CD player, and downloaded most of the corpus of Project Gutenberg for rainy day reading. I fashioned a rack for my Kayak. I got a Dell laptop, and a Verizon cell phone to keep in touch. I bought an F250 V10 to pull the whole mess.

In short, I set myself up as the very model of a modern RV traveler, at least of the modest sort, a dozen ranks below the Road Behemoths favored by all you rock stars and movie moguls.

Like Humpty Dumpty, I expect a great fall.

Or at least a great summer.


Bob

_________________________________________________________

Sounds like this guy was pretty sure he knew what he was doing, doesn't it?

He didn't have a clue.

But the only way to make it work was just to do it. So I spent July in the Pacific Northwest, drove thousands of miles, but wrote little or nothing about it. It didn't seem like there was time. I was moving every day.

So when September rolled around, I took off for High Colorado. And this time I was determined to stay put.

Maybe if I didn't move, the world would catch up to me.


Bob