A Tale Of Woe

Lake Louise Lodge
Lake Louise, Alaska

"Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;
Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world,
The blood-dimmed tide is loosed, and everywhere
The ceremony of innocence is drowned..."

- Yeats, "The Second Coming"


Well, okay. Maybe it's not all that bad. I get a little carried away, sometimes. This year I got carried away up to Alaska.

The fact is, I've abused my venerable old Mallard on many a bad road these last 5 years. It's held up reasonably well, but not perfectly. Those who have occasionally followed my adventures may recall some cross-frame members falling out into the middle of Highway 1 a couple of years ago. Stress fractures. I got the whole frame re-membered, stiffened and reinforced at a welding shop in Fort Bragg. Then my dinette caught fire. Fixed that, then finally tore the whole thing out and put in chairs and a table facing the window. Then I dropped a hot skillet on the vinyl flooring. Redid the floor with sticky squares from Home Depot. The idea was that I'd never have to do the whole floor again, but just replace individual squares. Right. Then last year in Colorado my converter fried itself. So I replaced that. In May my doorstep tore loose at a weld and hung cattywhompers. Got it. Moving right along.

You're right. This SHOULD be leading somewhere. Let's survey the current scene:

1. Many of those spiffy little vinyl squares are now curling up at the edges from all the flexing of the trailer. Or maybe the glue was just no damn good in the first place. And I find that Home Depot has discontinued the pattern. Great. So I've got all that to do over again. And I've yet to discover a material suitable for trailer flooring that chairs won't scratch up and eventually dig a hole in, sliding back and forth. Carpet would just collect dirt. Somehow I bring in a lot of dirt.

2. While at Valdez last week, the lock retractor on the right arm of my A&E awning quit retracting the locking pin. When I finally got it apart, a piece of what appears to be pot metal fell out of it. That little piece was what held the locking pin in reach of the release arm. If you can't picture this, you probably haven't got an awning. Shame on you. Go get one. I'll wait.

I screwed it down, as a temporary fix, but in a week or two that will fail, no doubt, and then I'll just rip the guts out and go to a simple through pin to hold the awning up. I've already drilled out multiple holes in the arm to fit one.

3. At Blueberry Lake, the gas valve on my water heater quit passing gas. I took apart what there was to dismantle, and everything looks fine. Whatever's wrong is internal. So I'll hope Anchorage has a replacement thermostat/valve assembly. I did try one of Mark Nemeth's old tricks: if you leave just the pilot light on overnight, there's usually plenty of hot water come morning. But the pilot light won't stay lit. The electrical side still works, though, so every morning I have to fire up the Honda generator for 30 minutes so I can get a hot shower. How blooming convenient.

4. Oops. The locking female plug on the generator isn't locking anymore. It pulls loose if there's any strain on the cord. Somewhere in Anchorage, I'm sure I'll find parts and a parking lot to fix this too. Thing probably needs an oil change, anyway. Anchorage is starting to loom large in my plans.

5. The Prowatt 650 inverter that powers everything but the TV inexplicably gave up the ghost only an hour ago, after performing flawlessly for 3 years. The green light doesn't come on, and AC power doesn't come out. No fuses, and the DC side is fine. I gave it a knucklethump, which actually fixed it for about 10 minutes. Then it quit for good. Further thumps fail to resuscitate. I even tried a little light cussing, followed by sweet talk. No go. That about uses up my technical expertise in these matters.

I have a couple of cheap Vector inverters put away just for just this situation. But they're 350W, and won't run the coffee grinder. That Krups grinder is only rated at 100W, but it won't work on these inverters. Another reason to run the generator every morning, even if I have to duct tape the cord in place.

6. The Vector 350 already wired up and ready to use is in an inaccessible place, and operated via a remote switch and relay hidden in a closet. Suddenly that relay has started clucking loudly at me every time I flip the switch. I fear the worst.

I've come to like being home 4 or 5 months a year, despite my early ambition to be a full-timer. You may have guessed at least one reason why. Things Fall Apart. And it takes a month or so, at my usual heady retirement pace, to get all that broke stuff working again.

Lately the pace of decrepitude has quickened, and I don't think I'll be able to wait until winter to deal with it. It looks like I'm going to be fixing things on the side of the road, and then fixing the things that fix things, on a regular basis. Which has got me started on a little wistful RV window-shopping. I had a couple of hundred units cheek by jowel around me down in Valdez over the Fourth, and dozens of people to compare notes with. I turned the whole question over in what currently passes for my mind.

All the choices, starting from scratch. Forget money for a moment. Yikes. Well, okay. What's the best RV for me?

I'll share a little of that higher math with you in the next episode. Right now I'm going down to the beach and check out the hovercraft.


Bob

Crackers

Valdez, AK

I am camped at Blueberry Lake, above Valdez. It's a silent sort of place just now, in the whispering way that nature is silent. Just enough wind to make a half empty ale bottle moan, and keep the abundant flies back under the bushes. Balm for the mind, this, after the crazed seagulls and frantic fishermen of Sea Otter Park in Valdez, over the Fourth of July.

I'm not sure what sort of bushes these are. Some kind of low Alders, perhaps. They climb the bluff opposite, leaving little bare ground. The leaves are lighter on bottom than top, so when the wind makes them restless there are inconstant wavelets of light and dark up there, as though the spirit of the lake, not content to be contained, has climbed the mountain.

Here I am, in the middle of the glacier-crowned Cnugach Mountains, and all I can think to write about is crackers. What on earth has happened to crackers?

Now ordinarily, and to most people, crackers would have about as much to do with camping as, say, motorhomes. But for me crackers are part of the picture. Poking with a stick at a spitting fire, a plate of crackers and cheese and sausage and pickles and cold sliced boiled eggs at hand, a glass of wine or a bottle of ale beside, the low sun warm on your neck, fish flopping in the water nearby... why, that's camping.

In the South there would also be a cacophony of crickets and tree frogs, but there are other critters here that take up the serenade, in their own shy way. Kew. Kew-kew-kew-kew-kew. Kew.

A hidden bird. But what? I haven't a clue.

I went into the Safeway in Valdez this morning to get the aforementioned culinary ingredients for camping. You can't get rat cheese any more, but cheddar makes an acceptable substitute. I picked up some "Alaska Sausage" nearby, which is a sort of hard salami that claims to "contain Reindeer meat". That may well be. Or perhaps their droppings. There are little black things in there that I hope are bits of peppercorn. It ended up tasting like beef, so I am content. I mention these things simply to indicate that I am not entirely opposed to innovation.

Which brings me to crackers. When I turned up the snack aisle, I was met by a pair of the most amazing blue eyes.

"Is there anything I can help you with?"

"I'm ...looking for crackers."

"Crackers? How about Ritz?"

"No, too rich for my blood. I was looking for something to go with cheese and sausage."

"Triskets? We have these on sale."

"Garlic and Oregano? Sounds a bit much."

"They're very good. Would you like to try one?"

"How would I do that?"

"Well, I've got this box that's been mushed a little. I'll open it up."

I couldn't help but smile. "I'm sorry, but I keep looking for a badge of some sort. Do you work for Nabisco?"

She dimpled. "Yes. And Dreyer's. We've got a special running on ice cream, too."

"Is your name Polly?"

She dimpled again. "No, I'm Miranda." She was opening the box. "What made you think of Polly?"

"Something about you makes me want a craacker."

She dimpled. Gosh, she's good at that. She held out the box. I tried one. Oregano and Garlic. Spicy hot and heavy on the grease. Not qualities that put me off in themselves, mind you. Quite acceptable in a hamburger. But rather nasty in a cold cracker.

"Do you eat these?"

She looked alarmed. "Oh, no. Well. I try to stay away from this stuff. Oh, I guess I shouldn't say that."

"Quite all right. You're a very good salesman. Er, person. But I think I'll stick with saltines. I like things to taste like what they are."

Those blue eyes lit up. "These taste like what they are. All our products do."

"Ah. Well, you go ahead then. You can have my part."

And so, like Odysseus, I slipped by. Didn't even have to tie myself to a mast. I did lean on the cart a little, once I got around the corner.

But I must have still been thinking about crackers, or something, when I went down the charcoal aisle. I grabbed a couple of quarts of lighter fluid without really looking at them. Seemed like the same white squeeze bottles with which I've tempted fate around campfires for decades.

You see, I learned long ago at the knee of Hob Martin, my sainted Scoutmaster, practically all there was to know about the tedious inefficacy of friction fire bows, and of flint and steel. Oh, if what you want is ritual, they're good enough. You can make a day of it. It's a little like cooking an elaborate meal, and laying out the ingredients in advance. All those little piles of stuff: punk, coarse dry tinder, twigs, and then dry sticks in assorted sizes. Makes you appreciate the Trials of Primitive Man. Museum stuff.

But if what you want is an actual fire this very evening, there's nothing to beat charcoal lighter. Doesn't usually flash over, or back, like gasoline. More flammable than motor oil. Hangs around just long enough to get the wood HOT and crackling on it's own. Liquid enough to penetrate the random cracks and recesses of a stack of firewood. No finesse, of course, no fuss, just fire. Functional technology at its finest. In fact, charcoal lighter is perfectly formulated to produce a plentiful supply of dancing flames in precisely the time it takes to skewer a couple of hot dogs and set out the buns and mustard.

And Oh! That pungent smell! Like a woman's perfume, it lets you know immediately that you're entering dangerous territory. You might get burned, if you're not careful. A potent and irresistible challenge that sets the mood perfectly. Eau d' camp. If there's such a thing as foreplay in camping, that smell is the bracing essence of it.

Friends and neighbors, I'm here to tell you that charcoal lighter is a miracle of modern science. So of course they've gone and ruined it.

I got a good look at that label just now. "Duraflame Fresh Light Liquid Gel Charcoal Lighter." Sounds like a civilian variant of napalm, doesn't it? Not so. It's white and creamy. Looks like gritty soap, and smells like oranges. As a matter of fact it's very similar to Fast Orange, a hand cleaner I keep for those rare occasions when I am tempted to fool with car innards. May be the exact same stuff, repackaged for the gullible and distracted.

It doesn't soak in. You can't aim it like the petroleum based dragon pee I'm used to. It just spluts out there and sits on top of the wood. A match WILL light this stuff, but it doesn't get HOT. It won't dry out damp wood. I know. I've used up an entire quart. And if I wanted my hands all sticky and orange-smelling, I'd simply buy an orange.

It's pitiful. Seven bucks. It's like those indoor fireworks I've heard about. Lame beyond belief. Just a pfft and a fizzle, when what your soul craves is a blaze of glory against the sky. I guess it might work if I started with small stuff, and made sure it was dry, and slowly built it up.... waitaminit! Now we're back to the fire bow! Centuries of progress erased in a moment!

I admit it. I'm male. I seldom read directions, and never read ingredients. But I'm reading them now. "Contains Methyl Alcohol". I could drink this stuff, if I didn't mind going blind. Wouldn't be much different, far as the timely reading of labels is concerned.

Grrr. I been had. Might as well have gone for the Triskets. At least they came with a plentitude of dimples.


Bob,
on Blueberry Lake.

Taking Stock

Sea Otter RV Park
Valdez, AK

It may be of interest to some to list the variety of troubles I've had with my rig on this trip, and my experience with what works all the way up to Alaska. And what doesn't.

First of all I have to say that the roads have not been as bad as I was led to believe. I've been on much worse in Colorado, Montana, or even Michigan. The bad roads are just longer up here. I was surprised within 10 miles of getting on the south end of the Cassiar to come over a rise and find a Winnebago stopped dead in the middle of the road, with the whole family outside taking pictures. I slid to a squirrelly stop, and asked if they needed help.

Nope. Just taking pictures.

The middle of a two lane road is the only place there is to stop, generally. In Northern B C, and somewhat less so in the Yukon, turnouts are rare and shoulders are thin to nonexistent, sloping down into a ditch. In this regard, the main roads up here resemble the back roads of Louisiana. The Cassiar is a boring, mosquito infested track through a tunnel of trees, and ill maintained. But the really bad spots are generally marked, and all you have to do is slow down. Traffic is light by southern standards, even with the annual sub-arctic RV migration.

I came to expect impromptu obstacles like that Winnebago. That doesn't mean the practice is safe. The only time I came near to having an accident was on the Klondike Highway, when I decided to stop briefly to pick up a hitchhiker. Note that I did not say pull over. There is nothing to pull over on. A semi nearly took us both out, coming around on the left at speed. In the lower 48 he would have used his horn. Here that is apparently considered waste motion. The trucks, and they are enormous heavy tandem trailer jobs for the most part, just go over, under, around, or through, as convenience dictates. They may not actually have brakes.

But flying rocks are no more common here than elsewhere. That's one of the Myths of the Northern Wastes, down south. It's funny to see the elaborate screens and shields people from the lower 48 have bought or more likely manufactured out of scrap to protect their precious paint jobs. I've seen motorhomes that resemble lightweight bulldozers that have recently churned through an East Texas trailer park. Some pickups look like they ran through the wire shelving department at Home Depot. The simplest and, to my eye, most original arrangement was a motorhome from Oregon that simply had wire screens over the headlights. All the rest of the front below the windshield was covered with bubble wrap and duct tape, with a couple of strategic gaps for the radiator.

I liked it, mainly because I am a Confirmed Deacon in the Church of Duct Tape. Simple, effective, and easy to remove when you come to your senses.

But people that live up here don't load up their vehicles with that crap, and neither should you. It can happen, of course, but I haven't gotten a single ding. Amazingly, the one lens that somehow did break was the porch light high up under the overhang of the fifth wheel, which had the whole truck in front to protect it. Go figure. Five bucks to replace it in Whitehorse. That's four bucks to you, you lucky devils.

Satellite radio is problematic. The incident angle to the satellites is easily blocked by low hills up here. XM shut down like I threw a switch at the Yukon border, and has worked only for minutes at a time since. Down south the digital signal was either perfect or missing, but up here you get a weird modulated soprano effect, as though all the announcers had gone castrati.

Perhaps they have.

Sirius has worked further north than XM. I believe their satellites wander this way a bit. But it's becoming finicky too. I think it's only a matter of time before I'm back in the '50s.

Verizon hasn't worked as an Internet provider since I entered Canada. In 2003 I got a workable connection through Telus in practically every little town south of Prince George, but not this trip. I think the problem is political, not technical. As these companies become larger, they are less willing to pay other companies for borrowed capability. For the customer, this means not all progress is forward. Voice service quit when I turned right onto the Cassiar, and hasn't resumed. I have some scant hope for Anchorage, in a few days.

Because everything depends on politics, I don't believe any cellular advice is likely to be useful from year to year. Cell phones do work up here. Right now the company of choice seems to be Cingular (ATT). I don't know anything about Internet service through them, though.

Wi-fi is everywhere. Most of this access is inadvertent, I believe, the result of people not knowing how to secure their systems. I understand that security of some sort is only a few clicks away, but lots of people are scared of this stuff, and absurdly grateful when it works at all.

This traveler thanks them very much.

The various connections are weirdly variable. Sometimes Windows reports an "unsecured" connection that I can't get out on anyway. Sometimes I can get the Web, but not email. Sometimes I can receive email, but not send it. There are technical reasons for all these things, but the practical solution is just to drive on a block and find another connection. I'm told they only reach out about 300 feet, but they are to be found nearly everywhere there are houses.

I have two GPS receivers. One is an ancient Garmin StreetPilot. The map program that came with it five or six years ago insists there are no streets or highways in the Yukon or Alaska. Microsoft Streets and Trips knows better, and the little GPS that came with that has worked pretty well. Both receivers began to show me a couple of miles to the north of the roads I was on, once I passed Prince George. I think this has something to do with the number of satellites in view. I have often found myself virtually up a mountain or in the middle of a bay, but fortunately automobiles are not IFR devices, and it is still pretty easy to look out the window and determine that you are on a road.

Beyond that, the two receivers report a consistently different altitude, by about 40 feet. And both differ from the road signs in the passes. Close enough for me. I am a child of the sixties, and careless about getting high. Indeed I often take comfort in not knowing exactly where I am. And even when I do, I compensate well.

Geeze. This note is getting waaaay long, and I haven't even gotten to most of the things that went blooie. That's going to take another installment.


Bob