The buck stops here in the Arizona desert

I've been thinking about the past. You don't have to tell me that contemplating the past is rarely a good thing. Living today for a better past is normally not a goal of mine. However, reflecting on my present circumstances has brought into sharp focus the choices that I made that have led me here to now. I've talked about this before, so I won't yank off the scab again. Nobody wants to smell an old festering wound.

I'm doing my best to navigate my fear while I manage the fear of others. The existential fear of being homeless is deeply embedded in my local zeitgeist. It seems clear that some members of my close circle of family and friends would recommend I seek the quickest path to housing, no matter what. Who cares if I have to endure shared housing! Who cares if it's in a city I don't care for, in a climate that is not healthy for me! Other people have to do things they don't want to do, what gives you the right be such a Goldilocks hothouse flower? 

No right at all, I guess, other than the small easily overlooked fact that it is my life we are talking about, not yours. I acknowledge your fear, but I cannot live what's left of my life in such a way as to make it so you don't feel fear. It's not my job to manage your fear, nor is it even possible. 

Nobody knows how much time they have on the planet. No one knows when an asteroid is going to blindside us, despite all the efforts of science. No one can predict the next pandemic or anticipate how deadly it might be. Nobody knows if the next breath they take will be their last. We live our lives as if we are immortal, as if there will always be a tomorrow. Well, I'll speak for myself. I know I have. I've made many assumptions, and made choices based on those assumptions. For example, I assumed somehow my creative life would blossom into something that would support me. 

In my secret little wizened heart of hearts, I hold out hope that it still might. The rest of me has no hope, and I'm wise enough now to know that hope is not a requirement for success of any kind. What is required is action. This I know. 

I am not a quitter. Neither am I a person who seeks to be subsidized, not by friends, not by family, not by the government. Call me a homeless loser if you must (I know you won't say it aloud to my face), but the buck stops here, with me. 

At least for the next few minutes, I choose to frame my circumstances as an invitation to meander through the field of infinite possibility. Your comments tell me you assume the worst, but we are not victims of the universe. The universe does not care about us. Bad things happen, but so do good things. Usually it is hard to tell which is which, and it doesn't matter. As long as I'm breathing and able to think and decide and take action for myself, I can set aside your fear long enough to see my life as an amazing adventure. I can see the road less traveled unfolding before me, inviting me to see what happens next. 

More free-falling dog days

Today I'm feeling a little like Dr. Doolittle might have felt. A little bird with a reddish chest was checking me out through the sliding glass door to the back patio, as if it wanted to tell me something. I'm not sure what, I refilled the bird feeder. Earlier this afternoon, the little dog in my care sat on my lap for the first time. I don't know what the bird was thinking but I can certainly read the dog's mind. Food, she's saying. Feed me, I'm hungry. 

For such a little dog, Maddie has four hollow legs. There's no end to her quest to scavenge. If she can't get a treat out of me, she hoovers up peanuts dropped by the birds chomping at the bird feeder. When all else fails, she gnashes down some beatup dried-up limes (or are they lemons, who knows, they are still green) or wizened fallen pomegranates that failed to grow into fruit. Maddie will be last man standing, long after I've moldered into dust for lack of my preferred hothouse diet, because she doesn't care what she eats. I've told her if I happen to die of a stroke or heart attack on the premises, she has my permission to eat my dead body. I think she appreciates the offer.

Speaking of moldering into dust, fall is in the air in Scottsdale. You wouldn't know it by the afternoon triple digits, but the mornings are the clue:  The air is almost cold. Well, 75°F feels cold to me these days. My internal thermostat is off. So are my sleep rhythms. Well, admit it, everything in my life is off. When it all goes off the rails, you have to wonder if perhaps you got onto a different track when you weren't paying attention. 

Early in the morning, the neighborhood is quiet. All the air conditioning units have fallen silent. During the day, the neighborhood sounds like an RV park full of rumbling generators, the loudest of which is our AC unit sitting against the house outside. It probably needs some attention, but it works, thank God. The cold air thrums and bumps through air ducts buried in the walls, sounding like a marching drum corps, and spews out through vents under the ceiling, to drift gently toward the floor, the counters, the couch where we are dozing. Gradually, over the course of the night, the house settles. The fridge stops feeling compelled to make ice. The AC unit sighs for the final time around 5:00 a.m. The house holds the heat of the daytime, but I imagine the walls are breathing as the house dreams.

Maddie is a good sleeper until about 5:30 a.m., when she leaps off the couch and twitches vigorously, making her collar and I.D. tag jangle. That is my cue to leap off the couch, fumble for my glasses and sandals, and follow her to the back door. I bring along my camping headlamp so I can see her as she beelines into the gravel labyrinth. I don't think she cares if coyotes could be in the neighborhood. She's a dog on a mission. 

She's efficient at that hour, unlike any other hour. Most of the time she wanders around sniffing things. It's her nature to sniff. However, she understands darkness is for sleeping. It doesn't take her long to do her business. I can practically see her dust off her hands as she trots back inside and heads to the couch. Me, I detour to the bathroom, where it takes me longer to do my business, being still half asleep, not to mention on heart pills. By the time I get back to the couch, she's commandeered the center cushion and is pretending to be completely out. I have to fit myself around her, which I do, no complaints. I am her beck and call girl. When I fall into the temptation of wondering about the purpose of my life, which I do hourly, I keep reminding myself, I live to serve the small dog who made my day.

Pool noodle ponderings

My life has become a dog’s life. After four cool, cloudy, intermittently rainy days in the Coconino National Forest parked under some pines just off Fire Road 518, I returned to Scottsdale to resume the final four days of my dogsitting job for the big dog Juno. On Monday, Juno’s parent departed for a European vacation, and after a long week of sleep deprivation, on Friday, I packed up and cleared out, making way for the daughter to take over dogcare duties. I like the big dog, but no more 5 am feedings of raw meat, yay.

Now I’m at the house of the little dog, Maddie, whose 7 am feeding time is a lot more civilized. The weather here at Maddie's house is as uncivilized as it was at Juno’s house, though (no surprise considering they are only a mile apart.) Outside, it’s currently 101°F, heading toward 106°F, which is better than yesterday’s 111°F, no whining. You might ask, who can live in this heat? I’ll tell you who. People who don’t live in their cars.

Safely ensconced in a large solid house with air conditiong and a refrigerator that spits out crushed or cubed ice at a push of a button, I now have a few weeks to ponder the state of my life, but I don’t really see the point. Pondering has never solved anything, in my limited experience of six-plus decades on the planet. Probably I feel this way because I am not a great thinker. Great thinkers have solved many of humanity’s problems, the only downside being that they have often been put to death for their forward thinking and willingness to improve things. Other than a disturbing tendency of the mob to reject anything new or different, being a great thinker is probably really great. I think. I don’t know from firsthand knowledge, so please leave your pitchfork at home after you read this blogpost. I come in peace.

My life is less than a hill of beans compared to the tragedies facing people in other parts of the world. It feels like the height of white American progressive bleeding heart liberalism to be so self-obsessed when so many are suffering. The realization almost makes me want to give up blogging altogether. Like, what is the point? Nobody cares, nothing changes, and I could use my life energy in ways that are more planet-saving than what I am doing now. My footprint is small, but it could be smaller. For example, I confess, I still have stuff in storage, which I hope to be reunited with someday, call me a selfish American piglet. I can dream. 

I was going to visit the home improvement store this morning, which is so close I could walk there, but I won’t, because I’m not quite ready to die under the blazing sun. The idea of uncovering the windows of my car and driving the few blocks to mix with a crowd of Sunday shoppers intent on getting their charcoal briquets and pool noodles seemed really unappealing, especially since I am once again masking up to go into public places. I haven’t entirely given up on remaining COVID-free.

Speaking of pool noodles, I’ve discovered there is a marked difference in quality between Walmart’s pool noodles and Home Depot’s pool noodles. For three times as much money ($2.98 compared to $1.00), with the Home Depot pool noodle, you definitely get three times the quality. I don’t have a pool, but I do have a butt, and sitting on a DIY toilet seat padded with sections of Walmart pool noodle compared to a seat padded with Home Depot pool noodle pieces really proved the old adage, you get what you pay for. I don’t put much stock in pondering, but as I sat in my car in the forest, I had time to give this situation some thought. Maybe if my butt were slightly less wide, the lesser quality noodle would have held up to the strain, perhaps be less inclined to split and fall apart. It’s so hard to know the perfect ratio of butt width to pool-noodle strength. However, one thing I know, if your butt is the slightest bit sweaty, you can expect pool noodle to adhere. This is the little-known drawback of making a toilet seat out of pool noodles. I offer this nugget of wisdom for your future car camping endeavors. I’m not a great thinker, as I said, but I have an appreciation for the basics in life, like DIY toilet seats. Thus, I continue my quest to improve my car camping experience.

Meanwhile, whenever I’m not working on my next book or scratching a small dog’s tummy, I am wondering what the hell I’m doing here and what happens next.

Trial run for a new life

I finally made it to the forest outside Flagstaff. It’s as beautiful as I had hoped. The trees are tall and piney. The grass is green, sparse, and full of weeds. The fire road to get to this campsite is flat and well maintained. Best of all, the temperature is in the low- to mid-70s. After the heat of Phoenix, I was ready for a shot of cooler air.

My dogsitting job ended on Wednesday. I spent Wednesday night in a Home Depot parking lot, almost ready to cave and call my friend to rescue me with her AC. But I toughed it out with the help of a USB-powered fan, and in the morning, I was ready to hit the road to Flagstaff. To celebrate my long holiday weekend of freedom, I stopped for coffee and a chocolate croissant at a Panera Bread. Yum. When I got back to my car, I opened the back liftgate, planning to get a cord to recharge the fan. As I was lifting the heavy gate, it wobbled in a highly unusual fashion. There was a loud pop, and a quarter-size piece of metal shot off into the parking lot, right in front of a passing car. Then the full liftgate weight was in my hand. The liftgate strut was hanging untethered.

I slowly lowered the liftgate on the dangling strut, wondering, what the heck, what now? I picked up the piece of metal that had been airborne. The metal bolt appeared to be sheared clean through.

The driver who saw the piece of metal fly off pulled up and asked me if I was okay and could she call someone. I just stood there, looking at the metal bolt, unsure what to say, feeling my coffee and chocolate croissant turning into water in my bowels. Finally, I thanked her and said I would call my nearby friend for help, knowing even as I said it, I had no such intention. I had memories of calling people every time my car broke down: my parents, my boyfriends, my brother. No way was I going to give up my freedom to eff everything up in my own stubborn way, even if it meant I had to cancel my camping trip.

The lady left. I lifted the gate and looked at the strut. I couldn’t tell quite how it was attached. Another bolt? I poked at it with some pliers but could not get a grip. I got out my phone and looked at a video about replacing the struts on a Grand Caravan. Not helpful.

Next, I looked up car repair places near me. I thought I might be able to make it someplace close by, if I drove really slowly. Images of my stuff flying out the back of my car flitted through my mind. I would be littering the road with all the stuff packed at the very back of the car: my electric tea kettle, several boxes of nose strips, cellophaned wrapped N95 masks, and beat-up baggies of power cords, not to mention my favorite quilt. The terrifying prospect of losing that stuff (and littering, I'm from Oregon, remember) made me feel a bit like barfing, but I didn’t see that I had much of a choice. The car repair place was only a few streets away. I let the GPS lady guide me. She took me straight to an apartment complex. Apparently this car repair dude was working out of his apartment. I tried his number. No answer.

I pulled up Maps again and found another place, a tire repair shop. Their website said they also handled “car repair,” and that fit my situation. I had a car in need of repair. I drove gingerly to the tire repair place. I parked and walked over to the office door. It was locked. A woman was standing on a grassy verge watching some guy moving tires around a shiny gray car.

We got to talking as women do when they are standing outside a car repair shop. I explained my predicament. She said she didn’t think they did car repair there, and anyway, there was only one guy working, and he was working on her car, which she’d brought back for a second time because they had sold her a set of four tires the day before (for $1,300) but failed to balance them, and what’s more, they were dirty. I made sounds of empathy. Clearly, she needed someone to witness her frustration.

Then she pulled out her phone and looked up the Dodge dealer over by the Scottsdale airport. It took her about five seconds to do what would have taken me fifteen minutes. I thanked her and wished her luck with her new tires, got back in my car, and set my GPS lady to lead the way. She did, although it was pure luck that inspired me to make a left turn when she said “make a slight left.” Slight. Ha.

In the dealership parking lot, I pulled around a bunch of cars, and maneuvered among some more cars, and finally saw the service area, which didn’t look too busy. I pulled up and a guy wearing a soft-brimmed hat came over. I showed him the broken bolt, and he backed away.

“Let me get a service advisor,” he said. What was he, I wondered, some sort of pre-advisor? I didn’t ask, I just said okay.

In a minute, a tall guy came over and took a look.

“I can’t replace these struts today,” I said. “I just need you to take this thing off so I can get back on the road.”

He grabbed the strut and gave it a turn. It popped off, like a hip joint coming out of a socket, and just like that, I was able to close the liftgate. I made marveling noises so he would feel properly appreciated, like, ooh, big strong dude, thank you for saving my weekend. I can’t play a damsel in distress anymore, given I’m over 60, but I am learning that I can play the old senile lady. Young dudes seem to appreciate being appreciated.

“Come back when you want to replace those struts,” he said. 

Feeling like my Dodge had dodged a major big-dollar bullet (every time this car breaks it costs me a minimum of $1,000), I managed to back out of the line without hitting anything, which now looking back was a total miracle, considering my car was packed almost to the roof.

At last! One more thing to do, fill the gas tank, then I would be on my way to my camping adventure!

I found a gas station just a couple blocks away. I pulled up to the pump and shoved my debit card into the slot like I’ve done a hundred times before since I’ve been in Arizona. Declined. What! I tried debit, I tried credit, I tried my business debit card, all declined! That was a first for me.

I went inside and paid cash, wondering if my bank account had been hacked and drained and I was now destitute. Dang it! I made a mental note to call the bank once I got to my campsite, assuming I had cell service.

Then I proceeded to enjoy a lovely drive into the mountains. I forgot all about my troubles. The car performed without a hiccup, which for me means cruising along at 63mph being blown off the road by everything but the slowest towed trailer. I passed the turnoff to Montezuma Well, thinking it would be nice to stop, but it was 100°F and suspecting the magic would not be quite the same the second time around. I kept going, wondering when the terrain would turn to pine forest, and then I crested a ridge, and there they were, evergreens! 

I braved traffic in Flagstaff and took the turnoff to Highway 40, also known as the old Route 66. I had directions to a camping area not far off the highway. To my surprise, I found the fire road with no problem. The red graveled road wound past some homes, an old quarry, and some logging sites, and then I spotted the first travel trailer, parked in a clearing 50 yards off the road. At last! Campers! 

I drove a little further, seeing more vehicles parked in the trees. It wasn’t even noon, so there were empty campsites to choose from. I took the first one that seemed level. I backed my car under a pine tree, turned off the engine, got out of my car, and took a deep breath of 7,000 feet high forest air. Then I called the bank and did a little whining. The bank lady reassured me, everything was fine, no cause for alarm, probably it was that one gas station. My bank is 1,500 miles away, so it’s not like I can just pop in for a new debit card. Fingers crossed.

I arrived on Thursday morning. The clouds rolled in Thursday night and kept on rolling overhead in waves, all the way to Sunday morning, when they finally parted, revealing blue sky. Friday and Saturday, intermittent rain, rain, and more rain. Some thunder, some wind, lots of chilly air. I definitely got my fill of cooler climes. Meanwhile, my two little power stations were draining as I recharged my phone and used my laptop and waited for some sun so I could test out my solar panel. Yes, I am the proud owner of a heavy glass foldable solar panel! I know. So exciting.

I’m happy to report, the solar panel worked. It took all day today to charge my power stations, because big white puffy clouds kept obscuring the sun, but eventually both my power stations were restored to 100% power. I felt like singing.

The weekend has been peaceful, despite my power anxieties, and despite the off-road vehicles, dirt bikes, trucks, and cars going by on the road fifty feet from my car. Despite the freight trains going along some tracks over by the highway. Despite the gunshots coming from shooters doing target practice in the forest . . . yep, I kid you not, and it’s loud. I’m pretty sure they are firing guns for fun. It’s been going on intermittently all weekend. If they had wanted to do harm, they have had plenty of time to come along and shoot up all the minivans, RVs, and travel trailers parked under the trees. I hope they will stop when it’s full dark.

I had only one visitor, and that was today. Ranger Brian was stopping at each camp to warn us that even though it’s been raining more or less nonstop for three days, there is still high fire danger, and we should not be having campfires. I have no problem with that rule. I’m not at all sure I could make a fire with wet wood, even if I wanted to. My RV neighbors to the north fired up their campfire the moment they pulled in, so I’m sure Ranger Brian gave them a talking to.

Nights in the forest are very dark. Dark and cold. I don’t have enough light to work in here after the sun goes down. I will have to pull out my headlamp. Last night I went to bed at 8:30, because what else is there to do when it’s pitch black and you aren’t sure you have enough power for one more day? At 10:30, something woke me up. The inside of the car was gently glowing. I looked out the window at the sky and saw a partial moon dodging the clouds—the remnants of the super blue moon. I tried to take a photo through the window, but all I got was a big white dot surrounded by some little whitish dots, which I figured out later were raindrops on my window.

Tomorrow I must break camp and head back to Scottsdale to resume the second portion of the dogsitting job. Back to AC. Back to electrical power. Back to triple-digit heat.

There’s lots more I could write about, like the conundrum of a condition I’ll call camping constipation, like the problem of too much stuff in too little space, like the real possibility I may have to do more car camping in the not too distant future. But that can wait.

Oddly, the most marvelous find of this trip is a fully automated, noncommercial Flagstaff radio station that plays the best classic rock songs I’ve ever heard in one place. I’m accepting it as the gift it is.