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. 

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. 

Some things don't change

I was sifting through my hundreds of raw source drawings, created over many years of sitting in meetings trying not to argue, cry, laugh out loud, or fall asleep. I'm old, so I've been to many meetings. That means I have many drawings. Almost all of them were drawn on lined journal notebook paper, so the quality is terrible. I do my best to clean them up and downsize them so they don't take forever to download. As I was scrolling through the list, looking for today's selection, I came across this one and realized, hey, that's right. I've been homeless before.

Looking back from the ripeness of old age, it seems to me that being homeless when you are young is way cooler than it is when you are old, wrinkled, and slow. Being a young bohemian has that hipness factor, or it could. I never had it, I was always the pathetic person my friends felt obligated to help by lending a couch for a night or by buying me breakfast. I still have some of those friends. Amazing. 

Eventually I figured out a way to exist in the world and started paying my way, until old age, poverty, and the shortage of affordable housing caught up to me. Rather than burn through the last of my savings, I have opted, as you know, to downsize and go on an extended road trip until something changes. I'm open to whatever. Maybe the housing supply will catch up to demand (hey, it could happen). Maybe I'll win the lottery (unlikely, considering I don't play). Maybe I'll roll my car and it will all be over. 

Meanwhile, life goes on and I'm doing my best to live it with style and panache, but within my limited means. If you've read this blog (which nobody does, so I feel free to say what I want), then you know I've downsized into my minivan, which I fondly call The Beast. Well, no, I haven't named it yet. Van lifers often name their vehicles. I have a little philodendron in a clay pot, which I have named after my mother. But other than that, this vehicle is as yet nameless. 

I'm currently parked in a parking lot outside an outlet mall somewhere near Tucson. I opted to vacate my peaceful campsite in the desert because we are getting some rain and high winds, and I don't want to get trapped by a flash flood. I'm not worried that I will be washed away, but it will take a few days for the water to evaporate, and I do worry about getting stuck in the mud. So, hence, parking lot.

I won't stay here for the night. It's not a level lot, for one thing, so I would end up sleeping on the floor. The main reason, though, is that there is a carnival set up at the top of the lot behind me. Earlier in the day, it was quiet. I thought, great, how fun to have a ferris wheel to look at but no crowds. Surely they won't open in the rain. Well, don't call me Shirley, because at 4:00 pm, the fair opened. Families with little kids have been streaming past my car, heading toward the source of the pounding music. I have my window covers up on that side, but I peek out from time to time. It's pretty, if you like carnivals. To top it off, every five minutes or so, a freight train rolls through on a nearby railroad track.  

I'm going to cut this short so I can drive back to Walmart or to Cracker Barrel or Home Depot or someplace where I can blend in with all the other ubiquitous minivans, pickups, and SUVs. Judging by the quantity of reflectix in windshields, I think lots of people are living in their cars. 

The deadly season is approaching

After an interminable week of debilitating pain, it seems my clenched jaw has finally relaxed. What a relief. There's a thing called TMJ, who knew. Like TMI, but a lot more painful. My cheekbones are dented from my desperate attempts to grind my fingers into the pressure points (I learned that on Dr. YouTube). Pressing on the jaw hinge was a bad idea, I discovered. However, kneading my cheekbones as if my face was made of bread dough really helped relieve the tension. A twice-daily ibuprofen also helped. I'm happy to say, last night was my first night sleeping without a pill. 

In other news, last night was also my first night sleeping on my new camping mattress. I think I described my trip to the Phoenix foam store, how I asked for the firmest foam they had. Well, I got firm, all right. Maybe too firm. It's just one level softer than concrete, far as I can tell. On the upside, the 4-inch slab is good for sitting. On the downside, as a sleeping mattress, it is unforgiving to my arthritic hip. Today I caved and bought a foam topper at Walmart. I may be a stoic but I'm not a masochist. 

Speaking of masochists, I continue my headlong hurdle toward the edge of my personal housing cliff. In anticipation of my impending free fall, my friends and family are sending me Wikipedia links to Arizona towns they think might suit me. I dutifully check them out. Safford, Globe, Payson, Coolidge, Eloy. Lot of cool names. Like any place, each town has pros and cons. Too small, too hot, too cold, too near fire danger, too near a federal prison . . . But lots of interesting history, if you like mining. 

The thing about parking yourself in one place is you are stuck there. I don't know how you live, maybe you go out all the time, but me, I'm prone to hunkering in my burrow, immersed in my isolation. Being alone is my happy place. However, if the burrow I have rented is too hot, too cold, too noisy, too expensive, or otherwise not suitable, then picking up and moving to another burrow is not easy. I know this from experience.

Not so when your burrow is your car.

My generous friends in Scottsdale, the ones with the little dog, apparently feel bad that I might be living in my car for a while. This summer they have trips planned to exotic places. Would I like to take care of the small furry creature while they are gone? Of course, I said yes. I love that little dog, and the house has all the mod cons (plus, the pool got fixed). Lots of reasons to say yes. 

However, when I'm living in someone else's space, I am not inhabiting my own. You might think, oh, vacation, how nice. That is not how I see it. I see myself as neither guest nor employee, but some third thing. Friend, maybe, but a friend who is willing to leave half her life in her car in order to be at the beck and call of a dog and so my friends can enjoy their trips knowing the dog will be well loved. How they can leave their dog for so long is beyond my comprehension, but that's just me. I miss my cat daily.

Another drawback to saying yes to dogsitting is the season. Summer in Phoenix is brutal. In fact, summer is life threatening. It is not possible to live in a car during the summer in Phoenix. Activities are constrained to early morning. The rest of the time, except for brief excursions to the back yard to make sure the dog pees, I have to stay indoors. I tell myself, I will get a lot of writing done. I will get a lot of dog love (and we all know that will be good for a person with early stage heart failure). But I will be stuck in Phoenix at a time when anyone with the means to leave does.

Where would I be if I weren't in Scottsdale? Camping in the national forest outside of Flagstaff with all the other van life nomads, finding sunny places to set out my solar panels and listening to the wind riffle the tall pines.

Dog love or tall shady trees? 

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.

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.

My aching back

You'd think I'd be used to change by now, after sixty-six years on the planet. Nope. Still not used to it. Still cranky when things change. Is it masochistic that I keep putting myself into situations that produce massive change? Maybe it's not masochistic. Maybe it's courageous. Did you ever think of that?

Speaking of cranky, I have a bone to pick with Microsoft. They had this nice little program called Picture Manager, really great for editing my drawings. Along with good old Paint, I can take my crummy illustrations drawn on lined journal paper and erase the blue lines, tidy them up, reduce the gray, and deepen the midtones. A few iterations ago, Microsoft stopped offering Picture Manager as part of Office. I have happily used Picture Manager for years on my old desktop but I don't have it on my laptop. 

Picture Manager came installed with MS Office 2010, which is what my desktop system was running, up until yesterday when the graphics card fizzled from dust, decay, cat hair, and old age. In fact, pretty much what has happened to me the past fifteen years just happened to my desktop computer system. Kaput. 

I'm grieving today for my desktop system. I'm also really grateful to the computer gods who kept the graphics card running long enough to finish a massive editing job with a serious deadline. I finished the job at 1:00 a.m. last night, went to bed, and woke up to a dead computer. Talk about miraculous timing. Bummer, my computer is dead, but hallelujah, it picked the right moment to die. Maybe there is a god.

I went to Dr. Google, who has all the explanations for everything, including the answer to the question What are these weird splotches on my arms and legs? and discovered that 2010 Sharepoint has Picture Manager, and I can download it for free. The kind people on the internet showed me what to do, and it worked, and now I have Picture Manager on my laptop. Yay. My laptop is to my desktop as the tortoise is to the hare, so it took quite a while to download (yes, yes, I agree, take my first born), install, customize just for Picture Manager, search for the folders with pictures in them, and then find the image I wanted to use. You can see I didn't get all the blue lines out, but I never do. Now that my desktop system is gunnysack, my printer/scanner will no longer work either. That means no more scanning of my drawings. Now I must use my smartphone to photograph my drawings. No more easy peasy. Everything creativity related now is slower, harder, and grimmer.

Change. You'd think after all this time.

Speaking of aching backs, car camping! When E called it a shakedown cruise, truer words never spilled over the epiglottis. My bed platform was sturdy but hard as only a plastic shelf with a one-inch camping pad and a pile of fleece blankets can be. That is to say, many long moments of wondering, what weird kind of frozen hell is this? Sleeping in a minivan in the middle of a freezing desert? I win the Amana Freezer for insane choices. I was saved by technology in the form of a dinky powerbank, my new boyfriend, Jackery, a 240 watt battery that powered my 70 watt heating pad that kept my feet warm during the night. I would not have made it without that heating pad. I would have been crying long before dawn. 

As it was, dawn was a long time coming. Do you know how dark and cold the desert gets when the sun goes down in the winter? Yeah, you probably do. You probably do your research before you go camping and wisely decide not to camp in the desert during the winter. Not me. I have to learn it all the long dark stupid cold hard way. Darkness comes fast and goes away reluctantly. Those three nights seemed to last forever, with a little bit of daylight in between. A watched sunrise never rises, isn't that how it goes? Something like that. You would make sure you have proper lighting in your car after dark, wouldn't you, you expert camper you. So you could do something productive, like, I don't know, blow on your freezing fingers or something.

I was shaken up good and proper on this shakedown cruise, and now I know I can survive in my car if I have to. I hope I don't have to live a long time in my car, but now I know I can do it. I can sleep (fitfully), cook, eat, bathe (sort of), poop in a bucket (an experience you should not miss for yourself), and stay warm (more or less, with my Jackery) in my car. And it requires much less paraphernalia than I thought. It was strange to wake up, fix coffee, and wonder, where the hell am I? And keep on drinking my coffee.

I understand the difference between low desert and high desert, but I guess I have to experience the difference in order to really get it, if you know what I mean. I whined last week about elevation. I kept trying to pay attention to my head during my road trip around Southern Arizona and into California. My head wasn't perfectly balanced in the low desert, but it went crazy when I got back to the high desert. That should tell me something. 

Okay, enough palaver. My head is reeling, my ear is crackling. That means we are expecting snow flurries tomorrow.