Home Base Tecopa

We can’t seem to move on into Death Valley. Here we have wonderful showers, private pools of hot desert springs waters, INTERNET and great people. So—we explore. Yesterday was the China Date Ranch.

First we stopped in Tecopa Proper. Here is the remnant of the old train station. I am a lover of ruins and here were wooden sidewalks, wooden post pillars and train ghosts galore.

Could anyone find a finer example of a classic pick'em up truck?

This wonderful bottle wall is a work in progress. I believe the final work of art will be in the form of a tiara.

Obviously China Date Ranch is a PC version of what it was originally called. But the ethnic settler was run off and a succession of horse rustlers took over the valley. It was lucrative. When the horse thieves made money they were Republicans. When they “redistributed” the land they were Democrats.

 

 The Ranch has so many types of date trees it is amazing. The dates are protected from the birds by wrapping the bunches of fruit in old clothing—it’s a very colorful orchard! In back of the ranch is a wonderful hike back to an old mining site, 2 “rivers” that converge and a beautifully preserved old berm from the Tidewater Tonopah railroad. The waters are the Amargosa River and Willow Creek. The water is pure.

Hiking the 3 miles was a bit much for me and Mr T was great about carrying both fanny packs and yelling at the dogs so I could conserve breath. A cold beer on the desert is like nectar.

Today the sun was gone—cold and overcast and not good for photography. We embarked on a long circle recon trip in the Jeep—90 miles total of which about 60 were on dirt roads. The plan was to circle Kingston Peak.

The Kingston Wash Road started out just fine. Nice wide dirt road and twice as many signs as needed warning us of who and what was allowed and that we could not drive over 30’ off the road. OK—fine—we can comply. The road quickly turned to a Class 2 road. The Jeep took it in stride. Besides, there were still numerous signs and markers pointing out the trail.

THERE IS TOO A ROAD AROUND HERE!

But all of a sudden, we were in rocks and boulders and washes and unmarked desert. It was now Class 3 and there was not a sign to be seen. Back when it had been proto-dirt road, it was government overkill. Now that information was vital, nothing was in sight. Now—try to imagine health care run by the government—that is what it would be like. No TARP signs here.

 

 Worse, we were quickly losing daylight as well as the road. The NavSys showed no roads of any kind so that was no help. We bottomed out, had to turn around, backtrack, guess, get out and scout—but eventually we found a stretch of desert that got us out of that wash just as the sun sank behind the hills. The last 12 miles we drove on a soft sand dirt road in complete darkness.

The Jeep has more desert pinstriping than it did and we bottomed out several times—but all the tires survived. All in all, it was a great day. Maybe tomorrow we’ll head into the Valley. And maybe not!

Into the Desert

We visited the bookstore at St. Andrew's Priory yesterday. It's first class all the way including the prices. We have a new unit of measuring worth--a Netbook. Many of the icons were priced at $250 or the equivalent of one Netbook. Some icons were as much as 4 Netbooks! I think it's a sign of how our world view has changed after being away from the monks for 2 years. The book title that intrigued me most was Levels of Humility--if one is measuring humility doesn't that defeat the virtue? (Mr T was engrossed in Harlots of Egypt.)

We left our wonderfully isolated camp and headed down the mountain and across the Mojave--again in bumper-to-bumper traffic. At some point in Victorville Jeep and Minnie got separated and then we played leapfrog trying to catch up to each other. First attempt was trying to hook up again at the Lynnwood Outlet Mall--THOUSANDS of shoppers backing up traffic and the attempt failed. The 2nd meeting place was supposed to be the Barstow Walmart--failure. No CB traffic but cell phones got us straightened out. By this time Mr T was on I 15 and I was on I 40--no good. We finally caught up to each other at Peggy Sue's in Yermo--one of our all-time favorite haunts on the desert.

After that it was just plodding across the desert to the hot springs we like to visit. We take the waters and enjoy the last internet connection until Stovepipe Wells. It's cold, windy, cloudy and generally the last kind of weather we'd hoped for. But it will change soon and we are in no hurry. The space and barrenness are soothing and if we take a few days to recover from the days of travel, no one is complaining.

THE NAVY SHOWER

We are dry camping on the grounds of a closed Christian summer camp in the Angeles National Forest. Amazingly we have 20 amp power and for water, a clear running creek behind the Minnie. We have to watch our gray water tank capacity very carefully. That means no real shower! Now Mr. T, being a mountain man at heart, has fine-tuned the art of the Navy Shower. I have avoided such an insult to civilization at all costs, preferring to take what is known in coarser circles as a PTA bath. I will leave the deciphering up to the individual’s imagination.

But I could avoid this mockery of a shower no longer. Mr. T walked me through the salient points. I insisted on a dress rehearsal.

1. Heater on in bathroom, doors closed, shower door open—check.

2. Towel at the ready, clean PJs warming up, dry towel hanging on door handle—check.

3. Shower cap on and get au natural—check.

4. Put shower head into bucket and turn on hot water(while shivering) and wait for hot water to kick in, add VERY COLD WATER to make semi-warm water, move collecting bucket aside and jump in shower—check.

5. Get wet. Turn off water—BLAH!

6. Soap up.

7. Shower nozzle back into collecting bucket and turn water back on. When you feel warm water again then rinse as fast as you can and turn the water off.

8. Collected water goes eventually into black water tank via flushing toilet.

9. While shivering violently, dry off, cuss out Navy, wiggle into jammies and swear never to get this far away from a KOA again.

The virtual rehearsal was clear. The actual practice was not so good. I got as far as Step Four before we realized that no one had bothered to turn on the hot water heater. DAMN! Cuss out Navy and Mr. T., scramble au natural into freezing bedroom and dig out sweats from bottom of ice box closet and leap under covers, turn electric blanket to high.

After much coaxing and sexist mocking of weak women from Mr. T, I gave it try number two. It worked with Mr T reporting a total shower time of 5 minutes including the water off minutes.

But I refuse to call whatever that was a “successful” shower. As soon as I get back in cell phone contact with the Real World I’m making reservations with Full Hook-ups.

Do RV parks come with room service???

I-5 OR HOW I LEARNED TO QUIT ASKING “ARE WE THERE YET?”

Heavy traffic again today. But we’re heading south down the state’s main traffic artery. The further south we drove the more barren it looked. Pretty soon I realized what was usual neatly prepared and planted fields seemed to be just empty land returning to untended stretches of dirt.

Then these signs started appearing hanging on the fences:

I knew the idiots in Congress had cut off water to some of the fields in the San Joaquin Valley because of a bottom of the food chain fish that isn’t even endangered. Once again the tree huggers exercise power they shouldn’t have with decisions that put humans beneath low life forms. Flush the fish, let the farmers get back to feeding the humans and shoot the ravens just for kicks and giggles. But I digress.

The drive was depressing. Empty, wind-blown fields, bumper to bumper traffic and the allure of California seemed diminished.

Once we cleared Palmdale with its crazy 50 mph city streets and stop lights every eighth mile, we pulled out of the flatlands and began a climb up into the foothills of the Angeles National Forest. I had managed to find a Christian camp that was pretty much closed up for the winter. We drove on roads called “Big Rock Creek” and “Red Gulch Road.” It started to feel like the set of a John Ford western.

We finally found the camp and were greeted by a wonderful woman who showed us where we could park our RV. This is not an RV camp—just kind people who were happy to help out travelers who needed a place to stay for 2 nights. The water pipes had all frozen during the snow a few days earlier but we did have electricity. Alas, no dumping facilities.

Later that evening we had a joyful reunion with our monk friends. Their new temporary digs are very nice and it was good to see the familiar icons and soak up the good smells of the new chapel. At Divine Liturgy back in Santa Rosa we had been admonished not to be seduced by the “pious, religious sentiment” of Christmas Eve. Well, when all you’ve felt for so long is emptiness, “pious religious sentiment” feels pretty good. I sure wasn’t going to knock it! So throw another Yule log on, crank up the carols and revel in sentimentality. Wassail All!

HERE WE COME A-RVing

Christmas Day and we roll out of Sonoma County at 5 pm hoping to catch a break in traffic through the East Bay. Wrong—very wrong. Freeways were jammed but once again the Minnie and the Jeep begin the long trek to Death Valley via a stop in Valyermo to visit “our” monks during their long pilgrimage as guests of the Benedictines at St. Andrew’s Priory.

Although it was only 3 hours to Kit Fox RV Park it was hard time. Quick showers, a little TV, let the dogs chase a few rabbits and we were ready to hit the sack for a long driving day on Saturday. We were reflecting on how the Pope and I have something in common—we both have been attacked on Christmas Eve during Midnight Mass. I was attacked by a soprano in my choir who suffered a psychotic break and thought I was the devil; the Holy Father was attacked by a nutcake who slipped past security and pulled down an elderly man. What a sick world. I wonder if the red-jacketed woman who went for the Pope was also a soprano?

The weather is not promising but I long to be back on the desert. I will keep you posted on the inevitable stories that travel brings.

Laying Down Electronic Footprints

Wiretapping? Interception of emails? Missing transcripts and birth certificates?

None of the above.

I'm talking about a basic female need to shop without being followed. It used to be very basic--you grabbed your wallet, cell phone and SUV and headed out. Sure, maybe you called over your shoulder, "Gotta run down to the drug store and pick up the photos." as you headed out the door. And then you went to the mall, downtown, Costco, antique stores and boutiques--whatever.

My cousin and I were discussing that those days are no more. Mind you, we are both married to men who love data, spreadsheets and online banking. Now, when we come home we are greeted with:

--Thanks for filling up the Jeep.

--The total at the drug store sure was a lot for just pictures--and $40 in cash?

--Why did you go to the mall? Didn't you just buy a sweater last week? And $30 in cash??

--I didn't know they had a boutique upstairs in the hardware store. And $20 in cash???

--Have a nice lunch at Vladamir's? Was it wise to have 2 glasses of wine at $8 a glass and then drive?

--You forgot to get my prescription for my colonoscopy prep while you were at the drug store.

--What's cloisoinne?

How do they know these things? Because they are FOLLOWING US ON THE COMPUTER!! Every transaction shows up immediately on the spreadsheet and online banking program! Even salting away a few extra dollars in cash is right there before I can even spend it!

How does one shop for Christmas presents? There's no point in trying to keep purchases a surprise for under the tree--forget it. "I see you got a vest in only a large. If that's for me you should know I wear an EXTRA large now."

Is there an App out there that will disguise how the credit cards are really being used? I go to Macy's and it shows up on the computer read out that I got an edger blade at Home Depot? We need more women in science. Forget George Bush. Forget Al Gore. Get me an App that covers my shopping footprints!!

La plume de ma tante est sur la table

As Mr. T has observed, I know just enough French to be dangerous. How right he is!

Part of our family lives in France. I thought Amazon.com was global--just send Christmas presents from California and anything over $25 would get the free shipping. WRONG!!!! A little 10 euro candle cost 50 euros for shipping.

So I was directed to Amazon.fr and told I would already be linked up there. Well gosh and golly--I sure was!! I was greeted Bonjour Toc--and then it was point and click and guess. It was all in French!! No press 2 for Spanish in France. Uh-uh. But I bumbled my way through with what remnants of high school French I remembered and thought I'd gotten to the gift certificate section.

They didn't want dollars--they wanted euros! Provide a conversion feature--uh-uh. Not the French. Side trip to Google to find out what equals what. The number that came up just looked funny in the way that numbers can do. One doesn't give a gift certificate for what looks like $267.43--too weird--so I rounded up and typed in 500 euros. The number that came up looked more like 500,000 euros but it was missing a zero. I figured they just must do numbers differently in France so I clicked on continuer(must be the same, right??)

I think I was doing okay until I got to the credit card part. I didn't realize the French do dates differently. But I realized it early this morning when the bank called saying the charge to our bank card had been denied because a wrong expiration date had been given. Dang! Failure!

Another hour spent today sloshing through the French and making guesses. This time I actually got an email back saying

Merci d'avoir commandé un chèque-cadeau sur Amazon.fr !
Informations sur la commande :
------------------------------------------------------------


Chèque(s)-cadeau(x) commandé(s) (N° de commande
 
The bad part is that I've either sent them 500 euros, 500 euros twice, 500,000 euros, or 500,000 euros twice. Or all of the above. Je n'est pas a single clue! Oh well--joyeux Noel.