I survived. Obviously, because I'm writing this blogpost. I survived. Seems like I've typed that phrase before. I survived. This is what my life has come to, measuring my success by how close to death I have come. I'm starting to find living on the edge of destruction kind of tedious. Okay, tedious might not express the full range of emotion. Truth: I'm terrified.
So after one peaceful night, I packed up, consulted the forest service map, and retraced my route south a bit, aiming for a place called Kelly Canyon. I hoped that because it was close to the highway, I might have more luck getting online. The GPS goddess led me there with no mishaps. I steered my car through the trees along a nicely graded gravel road. The few campsites I could see were already occupied. I passed a square pond in a depression in the land and headed up the hill, hoping for more options. Around a sharp bend the road suddenly veered steeply downward toward a gravel pit. A pickup truck was parked in the middle of the pit, a long ways below. I looked at the steep road down and remembered a time in my adolescence when I rode my bicycle down a similarly steep rocky road, holding on for dear life. Letting go of the handlebars would have meant total annhilation. I didn't let go. I survived.
This time, I wasn't riding a bike. However, a Dodge Grand Caravan is not an off-road four-wheel drive monster. I wasn't about to chance it. Across the pit, a little higher elevation from where I was idling on the cliff edge was the road I had not taken. A smooth, steep wall of gravel led from that road to the bottom of the pit. It looked like gravel was being dumped there to . . . extend the road? Fill in the pit? I didn't know, and I wasn't about to go down there and find out. I carefully backed my car into a 3-point turn and hightailed it back down to less scary ground.
I parked in a spot I had disdained on the way in, a very small, not quite level clearing much too close to the gravel road. Beggars, choosers. I checked my phones. Still no internet bars. Argh. Oh well.
Just after I parked, a pickup truck pulling a trailer came by. We waved. He pulled into a clearing near the pond but didn't set up camp. A few minutes later, he came by the other way. As he passed my camp, he paused and smiled, before continuing onward. I thought, that was weird, that smile. A moment later, a large brown cow came around the front of my car. I gasped and closed my side door a bit as the creature lumbered by, heading toward the pond. That's what the driver had been smiling at. He could see I was about to be invaded by cows.
Another cow rambled past on the back end of my car, avoiding my deployed solar panel. I reopened my door and looked out. A herd of cows was assembling at the pond. The correct term would probably be tank, because it was clearly a rancher-made watering hole.
I was settling in for a nice lunch when I heard the noise of a growling engine coming along the road. I thought, great, what maniac motorhome owner was coming my way. It was not a motorhome. It was a large dumptruck loaded with gravel. Just my luck.
The driver waved. I waved back. I thought, okay, one truck, a bit of noise and dust, no problem. Within minutes, four other dumptrucks came by. I assume they unloaded at the gravel pit, because minutes later, they all came by again, going back toward the highway. This happened multiple times over the early afternoon, a parade, a grumble, a rumble of dumptrucks, going by fully loaded, returning empty. Eventually they called it a day, and I spent an okay night there, but I knew I had to move on the next day. I needed bars. There's a joke in there somewhere, but I don't drink any more.
The next day was a day from hell. GPS, iOverland reviewers, the forest road map, and Google Maps all let me down. At one point my sister texted me directions to a place (4 stars! Easy to get to!). Not. No open spaces. I never made it to the supposedly 4-star camping area. I stopped at the sign that said no camping beyond this point, no turn around. I turned around while I still could.
A little later, I got stuck in construction traffic, trying to find a place to camp along Marshall Lake. No open spots, no bars. Next, I went south on 260 though Strawberry and Pine, after hearing positive things about the Mogollon Rim Road (FR 300). Not three minutes in, the road hairpinned straight to the moon. I almost got run down by loaded log trucks. I headed back south on 260. At a promising turnoff, I almost got stuck in a ditch when I backed up, trying to avoid going down a steep rocky road that would have probably broken one or both of my axles.
It was close to 100F outside. Every time I turned off the AC, I felt a few more brain cells evaporate into dust. Desperate, I parked under a shade canopy at a community college in Payson to text my Scottsdale friends who have a cabin outside of Payson, begging to park in their driveway. They had invited me to visit in a few days, so it seemed to make sense to ask if I could go there early. Lucky for me, my friend gave me directions to the place.
Even though I had hit my quota of driving on gravel mountain roads for one day, I dutifully obeyed the GPS lady as she led me up a long mountainous gravel road. I found their chalet without driving into a ditch or off a cliff, parked out front, and opened my car door into shocking silence. The absence of sound was stunning for a moment. Then I heard birds, neighbors doing stuff, a car engine across the road, a door slam, and birds . . . lots and lots of birds.
The homeowner told me where to find the spare key and walked me through the steps to turn on the water and power. I shucked my shoes and cautiously entered the mountain eyrie, which is where I am blogging to you from, in a lightfilled room, sitting at a kitchen table with room for six, and listening to the soothing rumble of a working refrigerator. (Did I mention I have a portable fridge in my car on this trip? Sadly, I can't find the power cord.)
What have I learned? Flat gravel and dirt roads are doable in a minivan if they aren't too washed out. Mountainous gravel and dirt roads shared with dumptrucks and log trucks are not doable, especially when you have no way of knowing if there will be a place you can turn around when you inevitably encouter a section that seems impassable. It's like sending a blind person out into traffic. Ascending or descending narrow mountain gravel roads is not a good idea; doing it with no cell signal is a an admission of defeat, a nose-thumb at the universe, a behavior just this side of intentional self-destruction. Only a fool would take a minivan on a road dominated by log trucks. Only someone who doesn't care if they live or die would do it without cell service.
So, now here I am, perched in this mountain chateau. My friends arrived last night, laden with food, accompanied by the little dog Maddie. Right now, they are out hiking while I sit in the comfort of their kitchen, writing this post and trying to process my feelings of surreality and dissociation. So much learning going on. I'm overwhelmed with the immensity of survival. And I live in America! It could be so much worse. If you have to be old and homeless, this is the place to be. Time to take a big bite of that steaming stinky humble pie.
