Suffering is optional, and your misery can be refunded

The Chronic Malcontent here, coming to you from open desert somewhere between Parker, AZ, and Lake Havasu City. I’m parked on a swath of BLM land that looks a lot like a Marscape. Just over the rocky hill to the west is the famous Lake Havasu, invisible to me because I don’t own lakefront property, a boat, or a willingness to pay for a sardine spot in a campground along the water. I’m cool with it. Seen one lake, yada yada.

Last night I found a spot on BLM land along highway 62 about six miles outside of Parker, just over the California border. More Marscape. I was going to stay two nights, but my power station was running low. Solar generation was out of the question, given the rain pelting the region, so the only way to charge the thing up was to drive. Hence, new location.

I was in a store in Parker and got to talking with a gentleman from Michigan. I could tell he was from colder climes because of his sporty cargo shorts and sockless sandals. It’s not cold here (even by most standards), but by Arizona winter standards, the temperature is just a little below normal. I feel it. My blood is Arizona thin after several seasons. I bundle up, as usual, with hat and fingerless gloves.I’m on my way to Los Angeles tomorrow to see my demented friend. I am not looking forward to being back in L.A. I was just there last April. I seem to remember swearing I would never return. Kind of ironic, given I lived there for twenty years. I suppose the city has changed a lot, although it’s still sprawling and chaotic; more to the point, I have changed. Driving in cities is hard and unpleasant. I have come to appreciate the long vistas and time to think that come with driving on the open road.

The American West has a lot of open space, which is why vehicular nomads tend to gravitate toward this part of the country. In the winter, most flock to southern Arizona to enjoy mild weather. Case in point, the dude from Michigan. He comes down here every winter with his wife and stays in various places. I got the feeling he meant nice hotels and golf resorts, because they weren’t driving a motorhome, just a little van conversion with a bed in the back for her to sack out during trips. Reminds me of my parents. They did something similar, poor-man style. Mom slept while Dad drove. I’m guessing this is in large part how their marriage survived so many years.

What have I learned on my roadtrip so far? Nights are long and dark. Mornings are cold. I need more lights. I need less stuff. The challenges are the basic conundrums of finding new routines in a new environment. Tip: everything needs to have a place, and when you are done with a thing, put it back in its place, otherwise you will not find it for days.

My brain keeps slipping gears as it tries to parse this new reality. I’m searching for meaning where there is none. I’m here, that’s all. It doesn’t have to mean I’m a colossal loser, a moral failure. People who haven’t lived a nomadic lifestyle get judgy, as if being on a continuous roadtrip is a sign of mental instability. I admit, I get mired in self-recrimination at times. This isn’t what I expected, that’s for sure, but to see it as a failure rather than an adventure is just a rut borne out of my upbringing, family concerns, and societal opinions.

I don’t believe I create my reality. Everything is outside my control. However, I do believe I can choose how I want to perceive reality, and in that sense, my choices create my experience. It’s challenging to avoid the drag of outside opinions. Everyone thinks they know what is right, for me, for them, for the world. Good, bad, who is qualified to judge my perception of my reality except me?

Meanwhile, the work of writing continues. What else is there? I’ve decided to rebrand myself as Carol B, Roadwriter. Creativity lives on, as long as there is life and breath.

Wandering but not quite lost

I’m writing to you from Bureau of Land Management (BLM) desert land outside of Quartzsite, Arizona. BLM land out here occupies many square miles. You can drive forever on dirt roads, although the further you go, the more you need four-wheel drive. My city minivan would not survive most of those roads. Being a sedate older person not looking to drive off a cliff, I keep to the flats not far out of town.

I am parked about a half mile from the freeway, near a shallow wash and a copse of scrubby trees, about one hundred yards from a herd of half-million dollar Prevosts towing toy haulers. Earlier they were racing their toys around the desert landscape. Now the happy campers seem to be setting off fireworks. I don’t know why people bring their entire house with them to go camping. On the other hand, nights in the desert are dark, cold, and endless. I suppose it helps to have heat, cold beer, and a big screen TV.

Yes, it’s a bit chilly in my car at night, but I’m not complaining. I hear Portland is 16°F, with snow, freezing rain, and high winds. Other parts of the country are suffering extreme winter weather as well. If that is your situation, I’m sorry. Especially if you are living in your car.

Speaking of living in a car, I am not living in my car. Yet. I’m on my second official roadtrip, on my way to Los Angeles by way of Quartzsite, AZ. I have found my tribe here in Quartzsite, but in true apanthropist fashion, I don’t want to have anything to do with them. I got my name badge at the RTR, saw the interiors of Sprinters, cargo vans, and minivans designed by some proud nomads, and listened to a woman in a long gauzy skirt make noise, oh excuse me, soothing healing sounds, by pounding on some large bronze shields with a fluffy mallet. I left as soon as I could.

I did not grown up in a camping family, so camping is a mystery to me. My mother camped with her parents and brother. Then she married a non-camping enthusiast and had four kids. It’s not that my father lacked an adventuresome spirit. He had a boat for a while, a 24-foot Thompson with a throbbing stern drive. He took me out on the Columbia River Slough once. We broke down. A nice lady in a little motorboat towed us back to the dock. Then on the next outing, he hit a half-submerged log and busted the sterndrive. Soon after, he sold the boat. He never talked about it, but I am guessing he was sad the dream ended the way it did.

I never wanted a boat. Neither have I had a hankering to camp. I like to hike, but not if I have to dodge snakes or climb over boulders. I was born and raised a city kid, which is why being out here in the open desert freaks me out. The quality of darkness outside my covered windows is more than I can bear to think about. When the wind scoots under the car, I feel a momentary change in my heart rate. Every little rustle could be a packrat eating my wires. A couple nights ago a storm blew through and carried my tarp and welcome mat into my neighbor’s campground. Anita from Missouri. She parked way too close to me, so I befriended her in self-defense. Widow, two kids, long-time camping enthusiast. I vacated to a more peaceful location the next day, which is where I am now.

I can see why people buy bigger and bigger vehicles. This minivan is a very small space, crammed with way too much stuff. If I were inclined to claustrophobia, I would never be able to do this. However, I’m fine with MRI machines and small minivans. I will probably wake up in my coffin and go ho hum. Not really. I hope to donate my body to science and avoid the entire coffin thing.

I feel somewhat like a pioneer might have felt. Did I bring enough food? Can my oxen pull this wagon? Will my solar panel charge up my Jackery or will clouds get in the way? Where can I dump my trash when the transfer station is only open three days a week? Will I have enough cell signal to get phone service, and how close am I to running out of my monthly quota of data? You know. Pioneer problems.

Why do some people glorify this lifestyle? It’s homelessness. You should have seen the interiors of some of those rigs. They looked like garbage dumps, festooned with fake ivy garlands, carpeted with Persian rugs and fake vinyl plank flooring, and reeking of incense, cooked onions, and poop.

After seeing all that stuff, I am more determined than ever to continue my commitment to downsize. I sense I am headed off a cliff of minimalism. It’s been a gradual slope at first, but the incline is getting steeper as I am coming to accept that I cannot maintain a life full of stuff. I feel a mild panic attack lurking just out of reach. Time to pee in my bucket, turn on my heating pad, and hit the foam rubber. Happy trails.