The quest to matter

It might be human nature to want to feel significant, to know we've made a difference by existing. I remember reading stories of pioneers who transversed the plains on their way to the Willamette Valley to steal land from the natives already living there. As they urged their plodding oxen forward, they left their marks on the land in the form of cast-off detritus, wagon wheel ruts, and carvings on Independence Rock, for example. I wonder if those travelers had any idea of their legacy. Now we treasure those acts of littering and vandalism. I think they just wanted to feel like, for a brief moment, they had made their mark, to prove they mattered.

A few weeks ago I camped in a dispersed camping area southwest of Tucson. The small area was crowded with campers, trailers, and motorhomes in various states of disrepair. Some looked like they hadn't moved in months. Huge tent mansions had sprung up around them as the residents sought to expand their living quarters into livable space. The wind whipped those tarps and tent flaps incessantly. 

I tucked my minivan into a space too tiny for anything else, with bushes screening me on three sides. Just behind my liftgate I saw the remains of a campfire ring, now filled with charcoal and some trash, which I put into my garbage bag. As I inspected the ground, I came across a plastic ziplock bag weighted down by a rock. I picked it up. A folded piece of paper was inside. Of course, I opened up the bag and unfolded the paper.

A previous camper had left a handwritten note. He wrote that he had camped in that spot in early March, a month or so before I arrived. He had camped a couple months at the campsite, on his way to something else, he wasn't sure what. During his stop there, he found an excellent Mexican food restaurant, and he met a girl he really liked, apparently another camper. He noted the uncertainty of his journey and reflected on how much he had learned about life and himself by living in his Jeep. A philosopher. He left the note unsigned. 

Reading the note made me think about how easy it is for an uprooted person to feel disconnected from an established community. I haven't felt inspired to leave litter in the form of a note to posterity. However, I too feel the need to matter. 

Imagine packing your important belongings into a Conestoga wagon, buying a team of oxen, and pointing them west. Even though the trail became well established, and there were numerous routes and supports put in place to help travelers cross the plains, it must have been fairly terrifying to turn away from civilization to head toward parts unknown. I'm guessing the frustration of staying stuck in the East caved under the desire for freedom, adventure, land, a new life. Seeds to plant, heads to bust, gold to pan, whatever the impetus, it was enough to motivate those intrepid souls to put it all in a wagon and hit the road. 

My extended road trip is not that romantic. I can't claim any grand motivation. I'm just waiting out the housing shortage. 

I thought about tossing the note in my trash bag. In the end, I put the note back in the ziplock baggy and weighted it down with the rock for someone else to find. I couldn't bring myself to erase the existence of that note. That camper mattered, to me, if to no one else. 

Searching for my tribe

My quest to escape the Tucson heat this week inspired me to relocate to higher elevation. I'd noticed on the weather forecasts that Sierra Vista was consistently four or five degrees cooler than Tucson. 87°F sounded better than 94°F. Thus, on Thursday after my second PT appointment, I headed south. An hour and a half drive brought me to this small city, where thanks to GPS I found the two most important things a city can offer: a library and a Walmart. 

I enjoyed the challenges of learning my way around Sierra Vista. The city has a lovely library, in case you get down this way. I did my laundry at a funky laundromat across from Fort Huachaca. I slept in the Walmart parking lot with quite a few other nomads. I shopped at Walmart a couple times to express my thanks. 

I don't know about you, but I can only stand so much Walmart energy before I have to leave, so after two nights, I checked the map and decided to try to find the BLM camping area that I'd heard about from a guy named Tater, who stopped by my van where I was parked last week next to the currently-on-hiatus Rillito Racetrack. 

I'd been doing some van chores and wondering what fresh hell my life would conjure this week. Tater (not his real name, I hope) drove up in a dented dirty white Chevy Astro panel van. 

"Hey, do you want solar on your roof?" he asked, rolling down his passenger window. 

Starved for human interaction, I trotted over and leaned in. "I like having it portable," I explained. "So sometimes I can park in the shade and still recharge."

He got out of his truck and came around to open his side door. "I do van builds," he said proudly, showing me the inside of his truck. I hummed and nodded to express my appreciation, but to myself I was thinking, dang, I thought I was a slob. All surfaces not covered with clothes, dishes, or other detritus were filmed with a layer of dust. I know that dust.

He lifted the side of his bed to show me his bucket and bag toilet.

"I have something very similar," I said. 

"I've been living in this for nine years."

"Wow," I said. "I just started. I'm a total newbie."

He opened up an app on his phone and showed me a map of the US with hundreds of dots on it. "I've camped at all these places."

"Wow. Have you camped up in the Marana area?" I asked. 

"No, so far I've only seen Snyder Hill," he said. 

I nodded knowingly. "Too crowded. Try Pump Station or Red Rock. Red Rock is gorgeous, if you don't mind being near a shooting range. It's going to be super hot this next week. I'm thinking of heading up in elevation but I'm not sure where to go."

"There are some places near Mt. Lemmon," Tater said.

I filed that for future reference. "I'm wondering about Sierra Vista."

"Yeah, some of the best camping down that way is Las Cienegas."

After leaving Sierra Vista, I headed southwest, looking for a particular road cutting north from the main highway. I disdained the GPS lady, sure I would find my way. The views are wide open! How hard could it be? True to form, I missed the turn and ended up in Sonoita, which is one of those places you'll miss completely if you blink. I parked in an empty lot and checked Maps, which told me to turn around and go back about nine minutes. 

I eventually found the entrance to an unpaved road, part dirt, part gravel, that dipped and swerved past a sign that said "This is a working cattle ranch! Leave gates as you found them." I drove over too many cattle guards to count, over hill and dale on the winding dirt road, and somehow managed to miss the camping area again. At least, I think that is what happened. The GPS lady was with me all the way, until she abandoned me in the middle of the road with nothing in sight but grassland, scrubby trees, and blue sky. I kept on driving, thinking any moment I would crest a hill and see my fellow nomads dispersed on the land before me. Nope. 

I took heart when a Sprinter van passed me from the opposite direction. Any minute now, I thought, and kept going. After dipping through some heart-stopping gullies (thinking wow, I'm glad rain is not in the forecast), I finally admitted defeat and consulted Maps again. Apparently I'd almost quit before the miracle. Maps showed me I was only four minutes away from a camping area called Cieneguita. 

And that is where I am blogging at you right now. 

The silence is wondrous. The view in all directions is a mind-boggling panorama of yellow grasslands, scrubby leafless trees, and roaming cows. And don't forget the canopy of blue sky.

Last night a visitor came through camp. I didn't hear a thing, but in the morning I saw the hoof prints and a fresh splat of cowpie, which the flies are enjoying in between trips through my open liftgate and out my open side door. 

This morning as I was practicing the vestibular exercises the PT gave me, standing heel-to-toe next to my car, trying to balance while alternately gazing up at the sky and then down at the dirt, I reflected on my camping experience to date. I'm learning two kinds of camping: city camping (wild camping) and free dispersed camping on BLM land. Both camping styles have their appeal. In the city, I feel connected to other humans, which feels mostly good, but the downside is I have to keep a low profile. No cooking on my campstove, for example. No leaving my windows uncovered at night. Out here on the land, my nearest neighbor is hundreds of yards away. Out here, I feel connected to nature, which I think is probably healthy for me in ways I don't yet fully realize. 

The Chronic Malcontent wobbles into nomad life

My younger brother used to be able to shoot down house flies with rubber bands. That takes some real skill. I don't have that skill. I resort to a spray bottle of alcohol. That used to work well on the house flies in Portland, even the great big ones. 

Here in the Southern Arizona desert, flies are hardy, tough little addicts. Alcohol just excites them. At least that is the way it looks to me. It's possible they are being replaced at the rate I shoot them down, like mercernary infantry who don't care if they live or die. It's possible the carpet is littered with carcasses, and I'll find them at some date long into the future when I do a deep clean on this little caravan. I hung a sheer curtain over the open doorway. It's folded over at the top, and multiple species of flies have congregated at the top of the fold. How they got in there I have no idea. What they are doing there is less of a mystery. I assume they skitter back and forth at the top of the fold because they are seeking the exit. Aren't we all.

Speaking of exit-seeking, I had my first appointment with the physical therapy suggested by the neurologist. We got off to a rocky start—I had failed to notice that one of the three pages I was supposed to fill out had more information on the back (in my defense, the other two pages were blank on the back, and I hadn't eaten anything since evening the day before, fearing she might be putting me through some shenanigans that would motivate me to barf.) Anyway, I think my OCD desire to finish filling out the form mollified her somewhat. She could tell I was a good student.

I was with her for almost two hours. I answered her questions as best I could. She did tests on my vestibular system (obviously not trusting the neurologist's diagnosis), and I'm glad she did her own tests, because as it turned out, she reached a different conclusion. Or rather, she reached no conclusion.

Finally we sat down in opposite chairs. She tapped my knee. "You don't have BPPV," she said. "Your eyes are steady. No nystagmus."

"Okay," I said.

"And I don't think you have vestibular migraines, either," she continued. "Vestibular migraines come like an attack, triggered by something, like food or bright lights. You don't have attacks."

"No, mine is more like waves," I agreed. "Every minute or so, with the ear crackling. Like a downed powerline in my head."

"In my eighteen years of therapy practice, I've never seen anyone like you."

"Oh," I said, feeling both special and bereft. 

"I can't treat you for BPPV," she said. "However, I have one more test I'd like to do, if you will come back one or two more times."

I nodded, picturing my calendar, which had two PT appointments per week for the next month. 

When I mentioned the schedule, she sighed. "The scheduler that day was new. Somewhat overzealous." Then she tapped my knee again. "I don't think you are crazy." 

"Uh . . . "

"You aren't making this up. This is a real thing."

"It is to me."

"Besides the vestibular paroxysmia, there's one other possibility. You might have Triple PD." 

Having read all the literature, real and fake, I knew that PPPD is a catch-all diagnosis that practitioners use when a patient has had a vestibular trauma and can't seem to shake it off. Over time, the patient develops anxiety, fearing the onset of the next attack, and the anxiety seems to keep the vestibular system constantly on edge, leading to chronic imbalance. 

"That is treated with antidepressants," I said. I was thinking to myself, I don't have anxiety, but some of the medications the neurologist mentioned were both antidepressants and epilepsy treatments. Maybe something could be negotiated.

"I agree with you, it makes sense to try the antiseizure drugs to see if they work on the paroxysmia. It's too bad this neurologist is new," she added (news to me). "It's so hard to get other doctors to read reports sometimes."

I'm guessing my future self is going to have to do battle with the neurologist, or maybe try to find a second neurologist who might be open to prescribing antiseizure meds. However, it helps to think the PT might be in my corner. We can hope.

Meanwhile, I'm out on BLM land in a place called Red Rock. The saguaros are incredible. The flies I've already described. The wind knocked over my solar panel, my little outdoor table, and a half-gallon of water, and now it's trying to pry off the blue tarp I bungeed to my car to block the blazing sun. From the inside, it looks like I'm inside an aquarium, except for the incessant flapping noise. I was hoping the wind would die down so I could leave the tarp up all night, but I don't think I can sleep with that going on, so wish me luck, I'm going out to battle the flies, the wind, and the tarp. 

See you next week.

Life comes at everyone

I can only remark that life is so strange so many times before it stops being strange and starts being the new normal. Everyone has challenges. On the continuum of challenges, mine are pretty shallow. Yes, I'm currently living in a very small space, but on the upside, I'm alive. Many people can no longer claim such a miracle. 

There's something great about writing this blogpost in my car listening to a transistor radio playing "ha, ha, ha, beautiful Sunday, my, my, my beautiful day." It's an insipid love song but it might as well be my theme song, at least for today. Oh, sorry. You're still stuck on the words "transistor radio." I know. Crazy. I remember I had one when I was a young teen. It ran on a 9- volt battery. This one runs on two AA batteries, but it's essentially the same thing: a little box that connects me to the outside world, which is especially welcome when I'm out on the BLM land. Unfortunately, the channel choices are slim out there. My options are country, hard rock, classical, hip hop, Spanish, and more country. Classical makes me insane, the hard rock is a little too head-bangy after a while, hip hop would be okay in small doses, and the Spanish channel is so exuberant I feel like taking a nap. So mostly I end up listening to country. I've never been a fan of country music. But it's better than doing van life chores in total silence with only the wind for company. What's more, none of the channels comes in clearly unless I'm holding the radio in my hand, which means I'm an antenna. It's hard to get things done with a radio in my hand all the time. 

That lovely rain I waxed poetic about last week trapped me in the desert for three days. I learned an important lesson: look at the dirt under my feet if I know the forecast calls for rain. The BLM land north of Tucson is not the gravel of Quartzsite. The roads to the camping area are soft red powder. You know what happens when it gets wet? Yes. Mud. No problem if you have 4-wheel drive, which I don't. So there I sat on my little rocky island, looking at the muddy ruts in the road fill with water and wondering how long I would be stuck. The trash bags were piling up, and some of them didn't smell so good, but I was mainly worried about running out of power. No sun means no solar charging. There are few things that make me crankier than running out of power. Imagine how you feel when the electricity goes out in your house. Yeah, like that, but with no utility company to call for the reassuring message telling you how many other households are affected and blaming some idiot for crashing into a power pole. 

On the third day, the sun came out. I charged up my power stations and started feeling better. By this time, though, I was a bit stir crazy. I tried to make a break for the main road and got partway there before I lost traction and had to park it on the rocky verge. I didn't want to risk getting mired in mud. So, there I sat, doing more van life chores, pondering the amazing amount of red mud on my tires, and waiting for the sun to dry up the land enough for me to escape.

I walked up to the main dirt road periodically, checking the condition of the ruts and grooves. Gradually the mush started to firm up. In the early afternoon, vehicles started flying by, mostly jeeps and big pickup trucks. When a small car went by, I knew I could probably get out if I could get from my parking spot to the road. With some careful maneuvering across ruts and between bushes, I eventually made it to the road. I fishtailed gingerly along the road until I came to civilization in the form of actual asphalt pavement. The land out there is beautiful, but roads are pretty nice, too. I was almost giddy to have real traction. The red mud fell off my tires as I roared down the road, singing "Here comes the sun" with the car radio (which has a big antenna, yay, oldies, finally!).

In my new adventure, I've had moments of delight. Stunning sunrises and sunsets. Spacious silence and wide-open vistas. Friendly Walmart parking lots and Walmart employees who show up at the exact moment I need help. The check engine light that comes on, and then goes off, as if to say, don't worry, be happy, it's all good, it's just one of those things. 

Life comes at everyone. It's coming at me, too. Or maybe I'm rushing to meet it. I can't really tell if I'm standing still or moving a million miles per hour through space. Maybe it doesn't matter. Maybe the trick is to learn to be present, no matter what is happening.

Enjoy the eclipse.