Sleeping to the Sound of the Sea

 

My alternate title was, “After the Invasion” but who wants to relive that episode?  Certainly not me. 

Greetings from Crystal Cove State Park, an absolute gem in the (hit and miss) California State Park Campgrounds.   My first time camping here was in Salt, with Alan, Rosco and River, on the night we moved out of our “Movie Star” house in Laguna Beach and into our 19’ Airstream (2011).  The park had just opened and we were too exhausted from that incredibly busy day (weeks, really) to appreciate the view.  Having stayed here numerous times since, I have made up for it with countless hours of staring.

But let’s talk about my hasty leave-taking from Morro Bay State Park:  I had planned to stay there a full week but my last three nights were to be in the middle of that tent-filled encampment so there was no way that was going to happen.  Despite the exorbitant cost, I booked three nights at Flying Flags Avila Beach, a place I have stayed at many times to varying degrees of enjoyment—but I was desperate.

I found myself thinking, on the very short drive between the two, that I do recall times when camping at Morro Bay State Beach was not fun—for the same reasons as this time.  So why was I so unhappy and desperate to leave?  And this is the problem with living alone (might be the only one as far as I can see):  You lose the ability to adapt.  Because you never have to compromise or do something that you might not want to do, you forget how to adjust your mind, how to look for the good in something even if it is driving you crazy.

So it was attitude adjustment time.  

The weather continued to be warm and the beaches filled, so I knew that it was likely to be crowded at Flying Flags as well; I was just hoping that the pricing would keep a little class around and maybe I wouldn’t be treated to a parade of people in their flannel pajamas and slippers heading to the bathrooms each morning.  But above that, I concentrated on the fact that families were out having fun and kids were outside and not attached to an electronic device.  These are important things.  Valuable things.  I pledged to make the most of it.

And what did I get?  Two nights of absolute heaven:  Parked in the dry camping area with no one next to me, Beagle’s back door open to the sea, Opus and I sitting outside Beagle in the warm breeze just staring at the boats in the harbor, the porpoise, seals and otters.

Those few days were filled with long morning walks (of course), a quick stop at Kracken Coffee for a bacon date scone (holy lord almighty), pickleball or paddling, reading, swimming in the ocean, and falling asleep to the sound of waves crashing on the shore.  (A particular benefit of this RV park is that you can walk to Mersea’s at the end of the fishing pier and grab a Crab Louie Salad (twice) or grilled fish over steamed vegetables and rice (once).)  Ya, I haven’t opened a can of soup for days.

Trying to force myself into new experiences (to help me become more adaptable), I decided to launch my paddle board from the beach.  Usually I launch my board from a marina or dock where there are no waves breaking.  But I challenged myself and launched from the beach, pushing my board over the breaking waves and hopping on—I felt like a surfer! 

And what a treat it was to paddle in the ocean!  After the calm of Puget Sound and Morro Bay, to be on a board with the energy of the waves beneath you, out beyond the break, floating over the large swells—it was delightful!  Fortunately, it was cool enough to leave Opus in the Beagle—I didn’t want him out there in the waves and with the many, rowdy and loud seals.

Riding the waves back into shore I managed to hop off without a problem, dragging my board up to the dry sand and returning for a nice swim.   I lived in the area for three years and never swam in the ocean; it was always too cold.  But with El Nino, the water is warm enough for a good long swim.  (It helps to come out and lay on your hot paddleboard which has been soaking up the sun.)

My third night there a giant A-Class Bus Like Thing parked next to me—his slide outs actually touched my picnic table—so I was happy to leave.

I stopped for two nights in Santa Barbara but not at the Ant Farm.  I landed a spot at El Capitan State Park, another of my oldies but goodies, and it did not disappoint.  With my new attitude toward the (is that screaming or just laughter?) loud children and packed campground, I was happy.  My first spot was nestled in the eucalyptus trees with no one next to me, and the second night I moved up to #124; a spot I found years ago, way at the end of the campground.  There are only four spots back there and they are parallel to the ocean.  I parked so Beagle's front door opened to the sea.

And so here I am on the first night of my last week in California, happily ensconced in an end unit where Beagle’s door opens to a lovely view of the canyon and her back door opens to the ocean.  Seven more nights of sleeping to the sound of the sea.

-K

 

The Day I Didn't Love Camping

 

Greetings from Morro Bay State Park which, like my previous spot at Sun Outdoors Santa Barbara (which is actually in Goleta), used to be one of my favorite camping stops. 

Let’s go back a couple of nights:  I had a restless sleep, waking often thinking that something was crawling on me.  Finally, at 5 AM, I decided to just get up.  I turned on the light to make some coffee and there were ants everywhere.  And I mean EVERYWHERE:  Crawling up the walls, in my sink, inside my tea kettle, it was like a horror movie. 

I immediately began wetting paper towels and wreaking havoc on their lines.  Then I realized Lysol wipes would be better so began pulling them out and swiping as fast as I could.  Soon I was overtaking them and, after about an hour, I was down to seeing only a couple here and there.

That’s when I aired out my bed and discovered ten dead ants in my bed.  Turns out I was right about things crawling on me.  I was so disgusted I almost gagged.

Already disappointed with this stop which has gone from a quiet, elegant (rare in an RV park) stop to a zoo in the last year, I figured out where I could buy some ant bait and packed up Beagle as fast as I could.  That’s when I saw the trail:  From under a bush up my stabilizer and into Beagle; an ant superhighway.  I hosed it down and drove out of there as fast as I could.

Thirty minutes later I was placing the ant traps at strategic locations in Beagle; I had still only seen a couple here and there and figured the ant traps would gather them all in while I drove north.

At this point I decided I needed something fast to eat so I walked into a McDonalds where everyone was speaking Spanish, from the plentiful customers to the people taking the orders. 

This is my love/hate relationship with California.  For one, you can never get away from the sound of another human voice (although, I have to admit, blissfully, right now sitting in Beagle in the cool early morning I cannot hear another voice, ahh) and it is quickly turning into a Spanish speaking mini-country.  I remember living in Laguna Beach when a landscaper knocked on my door and, when I answered, began speaking in Spanish:

I replied, “I do not speak Spanish.”

With pity in his voice he said, “You do not speak Spanish but you live in California?”

I replied, “Parlez-vois Francais?”

That closed the conversation and my door.

But I digress…Having left Goleta so early, I was hours early for my check-in at Morro Bay State Park.  This is where having lived somewhere before comes in handy:  I knew just where to park Beagle so I could walk around the bay, enjoy the many otters, let Opus sniff out the squirrels and retire to Tognazini’s on the Dock for two delicious grilled shrimp tacos.

A delightful respite.

Time came to check in.  I drove through the campground to fill my fresh water tank and looked with growing dismay at the campsites:  It looked, and I’m not kidding, like a refugee camp.  Many pitches had multiple cars in them and every speck of dirt (and now it is all dirt owing to the drying out of California) was taken up with tents.  Laundry was strung between tent poles, Costco sized packages of paper towels were on every picnic table, I thought, “If my pitch is in the middle of this, I am leaving and driving directly to the nearest Four Seasons.”

And you know I would.

Fortunately, my good planning had paid off and I am in a pitch far at the end; I even have a couple of bushes around.

OK, it’s hot in California right now, unusually hot.  And I was hot unhitching Beagle, and disgusted with the state of the campground and all around just in a bad mood.  Then I opened Beagle’s door.

The bait traps were inundated with ants!  They were frantically racing around and coming out of every possible seam in Beagle’s floor and ceiling.

Back into the car, back to the hardware store, this time returning with a giant spray can of Terro Ant Killer. 

But I couldn’t just start spraying everything:  I didn’t want it on my clothes or dishes so first I emptied out Beagle:  Onto the dusty picnic table went all my bedding, my duffel of clothes, my towels and few food items.

Then I sprayed every inch of Beagle.  Inside the cupboards, under the bed, and along the ceiling.  Leashing up Opus, we went for a nice long walk as they all came out to die.

It took a few hours for Beagle to air out, then I washed everything down, lightly respraying along the seams because it says it lasts up to six weeks and washed and loaded everything back in.  All I can say is Ugh.

Thankfully that evening I got to spend a little time with my brother and family which did, in fact, make it all worthwhile.

I still have about two weeks left in California; I am ending it at one of my all-time favorite campgrounds of anywhere I have camped, Crystal Cove State Park, in Laguna Beach; I hope it remains an all-time favorite.

-K

PS:  The lead-in picture was taken in Goleta; yes, the waves are coming from both directions!  Opus and I discovered this delightful spot at the end of our wonderful beach tour day of Santa Barbara.  We walked onto the sandbar and enjoyed the water washing over our feet.  Well, one of us did.

PPS:  I haven’t seen an ant in two days!

CA Streamin' The Final Act: From Streamin to Screamin

 

Monday morning, waking to the sound of rain on Beagle’s roof yet again, I glanced out the window to low lying fog and lowered my gaze to the muddy pitch.  Despite four days of mostly rain, the weather report promised yet another “Atmospheric River” beginning on Tuesday—and warnings of evacuations along the Central Coast.

              “Opus, we are out of here!,” I yelled.

OK, I didn’t yell, I used my ‘let’s make this fun’ voice as I layered on my raincoat and prepared to walk Opus in yet another California downpour.

You may recall that I cancelled my San Simeon State Park reservation because the rain was coming and I didn’t want to camp on dirt.  So I paid another astronomical amount of money per night for the brand new and fancy Flying Flags RV Park in Avila Beach.  A full hook-up spot with a view of the ocean. 

At their prices I assumed I didn’t have to ask about parking on dirt.

You know what they say about assuming, but there is only one ass in this situation.

Imagine my disbelief and dismay when I pulled up to Site 44 and began to back Beagle into place on dirt (ok, it was fine crushed rock, not dirt but it was still muddy and sticky.)  I was careful to align Beagle so when I first stepped out her door, I could land on the cement patio.  But every time I walked Opus or got in or out of the car, it was a squish-fest of wet, sticky pale pink mud.   Have I said sticky enough?  That stuff was everywhere. 

However soggy, I was glad to have the four nights there as it allowed me time with family but with more rain coming, I cancelled all other reservations for California (including a ski trip to Tahoe—there was no way I was taking Beagle up there again) and hit the road.  All I knew was that it was sunny in the desert and there was nothing but rain and snow all the way up California.  So desert it was!

Luckily I have even more family in Las Vegas so I stopped there one night before heading to this lovely spot you find me in now:

Sand Hollow State Park in Hurricane, Utah—if you want to sound like a local you have to say “Her-Kin.”

With a severe thundershower rolling in, traffic was edgy coming up from Vegas with everyone trying to reach their destination before the heavy rain reached us.  At one point, a dump truck passed me, and when he pulled back in front, Wham!  Rocks came flying out; a couple of them pinging off Wurzig (who already has a small crack following those heavily “sanded” snow roads on the way down.)  Thankfully no new pits in Wurzig’s glass.

Pulling up to the registration booth, I noticed that the lady was looking at me with something like pity.  Does she pity me because I am alone?  It was odd…pity with a bit of a wry smile like, “What can you do, eh?”   Anyway, I happily thanked her and headed to my pitch.  After parking and unhitching Beagle, I stepped inside to make a sandwich and realized the glazed look on Beagle’s front window was not rain.

That dump truck!

Thankfully only a couple of small holes were in the glass although, clearly, the rest was shattered.  But still holding up!  Can you imagine?  If it had all caved in, I would have had a mess of glass and rain and, let’s face it, tears.  As it was, I knew I needed to get something over those holes and the major cracks before the skies really opened up so duct tape it was.  We made it through the heavy rain and the morning dawned without a cloud in the sky.

Did this make me rush home?  Nope.  I had one more day of vacation built in and I was going to use it; this morning Opus and I hiked Quail Creek Lookout at the nearly adjacent Quail Creek Reservoir (some of you may have read my rave reviews of that campground before…these two parks are great but Sand Hollow is definitely for OHV’s—they are everywhere including along the shoreline—whereas Quail Creek is much more suited for quiet fishing, hiking and paddleboarding.)

 

All hope of paddle-boarding was quashed when the wind picked up during our return; gusts strong enough to almost knock me off my feet were not something I wanted to take on while standing on a floating board.  So we returned to Beagle, applied Flex Seal to the small holes and cracks in the window and then covered her up for our seven hundred mile trip home.  Dividing the travel in half, I’ll stop tomorrow night in Antelope Island State Park before making it home on Saturday.

So draws the end of California Streamin’ 2023.  Not nearly what I imagined but a great lesson in enjoying where you are at right now.

-K

PS:  For my camping buddies:  There are three campgrounds in Sand Hollow all quite aptly named:  Westside (where Beagle is) is paved with full hook-ups but does not have views of the reservoir; Sand Pit which is gravel and suited for people who love large packs of people with easy access to OHV trails (not sure of the hook-up situation); and Lakeside which is paved, peaceful and delightful.  There is also primitive camping at the end of a dirt road.

CA Streamin' Act II: A Vacation for Almost Everyone

 

It might be the last of the warm sunshine I feel for awhile so, as I wrote about in The Gift of Knowing It Is The Last Time, I am basking in it:  Beagle’s doors are all open, the screens pulled across to keep the flies out and Opus in (not that I trust either of those scenarios), the sun is warming the side of Beagle as it slowly maneuvers its way toward the end of the day, and my body is tired from today’s beach hike and swimming. This is my idea of heaven. 

If you read my previous post, Act I, you know what it took to physically get here; an arduous journey for Wurzig, Beagle, myself and Opus.  After five nights in this Disneyland for campers, three out of four of us feel like we have had a lovely vacation.

“Isn’t your entire life a vacation?” you ask.   Actually, last year someone said that to me—not in question form, more like accusatory form—and I had to admit that he was right.  But, just before booking this fancy RV park, I had turned down an opportunity to go to Hawaii with a dear friend.  Hawaii sounded so good: Sunshine, warmth, swimming, a true vacation.  But I did not want to fly anywhere so, despite Sun Outdoors Santa Barbara’s $140 per night charge I decided the vacation portion of CA Streamin would happen here.  The resort boasts easy access to beaches, hiking trails and an onsite pool and jacuzzi.  Sounds like vacation to me.  The hills just behind the RV park:

For Wurzig, vacation meant freedom to go as fast as it was allowed, not having to tow Beagle, not having its tires rubbing against the snow and ice built up inside the wheel wells, not having rocks from the “sand” fly up and crack the windshield.  It meant over 80 MPH with the windows down and the moon roof open and the radio blaring, making even the (unexpectedly far) drive to Santa Barbara activities a pleasure.

For Beagle it meant a full hook up spot where, connected to “city” water, she didn’t have to run her pump to deliver water to the faucets, and plugged into 30 AMP power she didn’t have to fire up her gas burners to heat water or keep us toasty during the surprisingly cold nights.  (Unfortunately, there was a power surge one night and she blew her 15 AMP breaker, nullifying any use of internal outlets; I was without toast for four mornings.)

For me, having spent a lot of time in Santa Barbara for, let's just say, not pleasure, I was anxious to spend time in the town as a tourist.  It turned out to be a great combination:  The comfort of knowing your way around and the joy of discovering new places.   

Due to the rains, all my favorite hikes in the National Forests were closed so Opus and I made do with the Bill Wallace El Capitan Trail (adjacent to the RV Park), the Goleta Beach UCSB Lagoon Trail, and miles and miles of the gorgeous path that runs along Santa Barbara from north of the Marina and down to Butterfly Beach.  But my favorite activity turned out to be a new one:  Paddle-boarding on the open sea.

I had paddle-boarded before, but never on the open sea (once was in San Diego’s Mission Bay which is, technically, salt water, but no one would confuse it with the open sea.)  I’m talking waves baby!  And sea lions and harbor seals and did I mention waves?  My guide, Amanda from Cal Coast Adventures, was fantastic:  Very calm, reassuring, and supportive with comments like, “Feel free to stand up whenever you are ready” and, after a particularly ungraceful sharp left turn on my part, “But you are still on your board!”, and my favorite, “We are going under the pier, not into it.”

I could not be in Santa Barbara without visiting the Helena Street Bakery (twice) and Brody Brothers for chowder while overlooking the marina:

 

But I also forced myself to try new things.  East Beach Tacos was highly rated on Google, a hole in the wall kind of place adjacent to batting cages.  The line was already long at 11:15 AM and I could almost hear the locals cursing Google and Yelp as they patiently waited for the rest of us to make up our mind.  But how could you?  Sure, they had the basics:  Fish, shrimp, carnitas, carne asada, but they also had Banh Mi and Gangnam Style.  In keeping with my 50/50 familiar to new philosophy, I opted for one grilled fish and one Banh Mi.  Rated on Google, of course.

Due to the Yelpification of Jeannine’s, I tried another new lunch spot, The Goat Tree; where I sat in a delightful, dog-friendly, sun-dappled patio and enjoyed the Smoked Salmon Toast which was presented so beautifully with grated red beets resting atop the white and green alfalfa sprouts, which, in turn, rested upon the pink salmon, I almost broke my rule about taking pictures of my food.

And nothing says vacation to me like laying in the sun which I did every afternoon before swimming in the small but clean pool.  Or trying to.  Yesterday I was entering the pool via the steps and, as I tripped and began to tumble into the pool, I had two thoughts, “Thank god I am landing in water”, and “Does anything make you feel older than tripping on your way into a pool?”  Turns out there is something:  Today I walked into (elegant, trendy, cool) Dean’s Coffee Shop which was filled with UCSB students.

As I mentioned, three out of four of us were thrilled with this vacation; Opus begs to differ.  Although he has enjoyed lots of off-leash beach and hiking time, back at camp the squirrels required constant vigilance.  Often by 4:00 PM, he would sit by the front door of Beagle and ask to go inside.  Sometimes ignorance is bliss. 

Often.  Often ignorance is bliss.

Like with every vacation, this too must end.  But with even more storms rolling into California, I have made some changes to my itinerary.  I had planned on leaving here and going to San Simeon State Park where I would be camping, truly camping (without water or electricity and on, get this dirt!) for four nights.  But it is due to rain almost continuously for those days and, although I often camp in rain, and I often camp on dirt, I do not camp in rain on dirt.  So I am off to another pricey RV Resort…

-K

PS:  I call this, “She Who Must Have Toast”:

Find, Fix, Test, Repeat

 

Greetings from the River West RV Park in Reno, Nevada, yes, we got out of Oakhurst!  And as a bonus, gas is a full $2.00/gallon less expensive here.

When last we met, I was heading into my appointment at The Rusty Piston to have them look at my “ping”.  I won’t go into all the details, suffice it to say it was very difficult to nail down and I ended up with three repaired wires, two new trailer brakes, one new brake controller and two new friends.

I worked closely with the garage manager and lead mechanic (who was also the owner.)  We developed a respect for each other’s intelligence and discovered that we shared two beliefs:  That everything happens for a reason and, most important of all, that life requires a sense of humor.

However, after three times of finding and fixing an issue only to have the ping return during a test, we all had a moment when we lost our sense of humor.  We decided to call it a night; I climbed into Beagle and slept in their parking lot.  (I did alleviate some of my frustration with a pint of local beer down the street and some really good fish tacos.)

All three of us did research overnight and by morning we had all reached the same conclusion:  New trailer brakes.  Since the guys were going to be busy installing the brakes and a new controller, they suggested a hike for Opus and me (thank god) that started just across the highway and rambled up what was the old road to Yosemite.  It was beautiful and peaceful back there with green rolling hills and oak trees; it was just what we needed. 

The work wasn’t completed until 4:00 and then the owner and I started driving Wurzig & The Beagle to burnish the new brakes and set up the controller.  It took forty-five minutes for the brakes to set but it was a treat for me—I was a passenger for once!  

Driving away at 5:30 I knew I wasn’t going far so I headed back to Bass Lake (twelve miles) and searched out a first-come site.  My favorites were all taken or reserved so I tried a new loop and found an absolutely dreamy spot:  #113 is a long back-in spot, surrounded by trees and, get this, you cannot see another trailer from any side!  (Nor can you see the lake but that was ok with me.)  It was tucked back and private; just what I needed after two days with a bunch of mechanics and a night in a parking lot. 

To top it off, I didn’t have to level side to side or front to back so no disconnecting.  That is a treat.  I backed in, put down the stabilizers, walked the dogs, made some dinner and what?  Oh my god, rookie mistake, I forgot to look at my tanks before returning to camp and I did not have enough water for a shower.  It is rare that I don’t have a shower at night—I even had one in the parking lot!  Ahh well.

Opus and I put in a good four miles in the morning; we got the blood pumping and the sweat flowing which felt wonderful but made me miss a shower even more.  A quick sponge bath and a washing of my hair in the sink was all I could do.

An hour later, with freshened tanks, we hit the road to cross the Sierra’s.  My favorite route, Highway 108 over Sonora Pass was closed as was Highway 4, due to the impending snow storm.  (Shoulder season camping has its issues.)  So we traveled Highway 88 climbing up through rain then sleet and into the snow. 

I had just passed one of those “road closed” gates (still open obviously) when the snow began to stick to the road and the temperature dropped below freezing.  Visibility was poor, low clouds and tons of snow, and I was about to turn around when I remembered to look at the cars coming toward me:  If they had snow on them then for sure it was trouble ahead, but if they were just wet, I could keep going.

They were just wet.

We kept going.

It was slow going but we made it.  Once I saw the other “road closed” gate (again, obviously still open), I knew we were headed down and started to enjoy the drive.  The sky opened up a bit, some blue showing through, so I stopped at a Snow Park parking lot and let the dogs race around for a bit.  The wind was furious and it was still below freezing so we didn’t last long.

You can bet the first thing I did once we stopped for the night at Topaz Lake was to heat up the water and take a nice, longish, hot shower before returning to the view out Beagle’s front window:

And tonight we sit in an RV park, not our favorite thing, but laundry is done, Wurzig & The Beagle are cleaned up and we have a fresh round of groceries.  Heading north tomorrow into what looks like a bunch of rain.  Interesting.

-K

The Disparity in Ping Duration

 

My first thought Saturday morning was, “I get to leave on my epic Beagle trip tomorrow!”, and my second thought was, “Why not leave today?”

It felt like I had been preparing for this departure for weeks, after all, planning to be gone for over two months takes some preparation. But when I realized that all I had left to do was to unplug my refrigerator, turn off my water heater, and pack some clothes and food into Beagle, I figured I could be gone in about three hours.

And did that light up my day!  I set about my tasks thinking about my trip, how much fun it will be to discover new (to me) mountains and see old (to me) friends and (hopefully) even make my way back to my homeland (come on Canada, let me back in!)  Then I reminded myself that the trip would also have its obstacles; all trips do.  So I coached myself that mostly what I needed to bring along was my sense of humor. 

And that was tested a mere hour later.

After shutting down my house and packing up Beagle, it was time to hitch her up.  Imagine my dismay when, during my last step of plugging in my brake controller, it did not register Beagle’s presence.  Usually it will display, “connected” or “not connected” or some series of numbers indicating the amount of brake pressure Wurzig is sending to Beagle.  But I had nothing. 

I went through my normal tech support; turn everything off, turn everything back on, try again.  (Back in my computer support days, we would charge $37.50 for that advice.)  But, unlike my computer support days, this did not work.  I called one mobile RV person and received their voice mail.  I drove to a local RV park and asked if there was someone who might be able to help.  They provided a number for a second mobile RV person.  Not only was he readily available, he could meet me in an hour.

OK Kit, just write this next part even though it makes you look really unintelligent.

It took him about three minutes to diagnose my issue:  The part of the controller that plugs into my cigarette lighter was missing its top and out of that top had fallen the fuse.  We eventually located all the missing parts, reassembled the unit, plugged it in and were rewarded with “connected.”  My first of two interactions with an RV repairman in two days, but I am getting ahead of myself.

The dogs and I were on our way! 

And yes, River is aboard.  She is still doing her dog business at appropriate moments and still such a warm and comforting companion, I am happy to have her along.  Opus has no comment.

At that point, my ETA into Bass Lake was after five; a rookie mistake when you are hoping to grab a first-come site on a sunny, warm Saturday next to a California lake.  But the Kitness was alive and well!

Having learned to take the long way to Bass Lake rather than the back-roads recommended by Google, I ended up reaching my favorite campground first and was surprised to see them open.  I was warmly greeted by the camp host who remembered me from last year (one of the many benefits of The Beagle—she does make a lasting impression on most people.)   I was welcomed to select any open spot so I chose the one pictured above—who wouldn’t?

After an intense leveling job, a short walk with two noses and a longer one with one, we settled into Beagle around eight o’clock.  And that’s when I first heard the “Thunk/Ping!”  The campground was near full so I thought it was someone playing cornhole, I should have paid closer attention to the ping portion. 

Darkness arrived, people settled down around their fires and the “ping!” continued.  It was on the left side of Beagle.  I grabbed a flashlight and went outside.  The sound was definitely coming from somewhere behind Beagle’s wheel.  “Ping!”…“Ping!”  every four seconds or so, sounding louder now that the campground had quieted.

My fellow Basecampers know that all of Beagle’s systems are located near that wheel well, so my first thought was something was wrong with my water pump or heater.  I went back inside, moved Opus & River to one side of the bed (it being after 9:30 PM, they were intent on sleeping) stacked the remaining cushions in the kitchen and opened up the service compartment.  But the noise sounded further away; it had to be something with my wheel or brakes.  Nothing more to do that night but at least I was rewarded with some lovely stars:

Eventually I fell asleep to the rhythmic ping, woke somewhere in the night and realized it had stopped.  But it had been pinging for at least six hours.

The next day I had to move to my reserved spot about two miles down the road but not until noon.  So Opus and I spent the morning hiking Goat Trail, a delightful trail that beings right from Forks Campground.  The sun was shining, the wild flowers were blooming and we were jumping for joy at our good fortune.

But, after the short drive to the new campground, the ping was back.  On the bright side, it did not sound as loud and stopped within an hour of being parked.  This led me to believe it had something to do with metal getting too hot when I drove.  The ping did sound a lot like metal cooling down and the long drive Saturday versus the short drive Sunday explained the disparity in ping duration.

At this point I had contacted everyone I knew who might be able to shed some light on the issue and determined that what I needed was someone local.  So back to an RV park for a recommendation.

The local mobile repairman didn’t actually visit, he listened to my video, gave his opinion that it was a wheel and/or brake issue (something he did not work on) and recommended a mechanic about ten miles away in Oakhurst.

I knew three things at that point:  (1) It was a gorgeous, sunny, warm Sunday; (2) It was due to rain all day on Monday; and (3) the garage wasn’t open.  All of which led me to take Opus on another hike, this time up Angel Falls.

Today, Monday, bright and early I drove to The Rusty Piston—some things are better explained in person and I figured this was one of them.  I left Beagle at camp since I didn’t want to tow her through town unless I knew someone was going to be able to help me. 

The guys inspired confidence with their busy, efficient, multi-bay garage and friendly owner who, after hearing my story, listening to my video, and learning that I was hoping to leave town on Wednesday, booked me an appointment for tomorrow.

After breakfast and coffee in town I drove through the rain up to the snowline with the dogs and let them race around for a bit.  Now we are tucked back in Beagle, warm and toasty, the rain is coming down (should end tonight), and feeling very fortunate to have my lithium batteries.

Stay tuned!

-K

The True Test

 

It was a trip designed to be a test of Beagle’s upgraded systems, turns out there were a few more questions to be answered:  Is there something wrong with me that I seek out solitude so often?  Will Opus return?  And, can I continue to choose freedom over fear?

If you have been reading along, you know that I was on the wait list at Santa Barbara Outdoor Gear to have Beagle’s lithium batteries swapped out for heated lithium batteries, the addition of a DC to DC charger, and a little something for Wurzig; ceramic tint for the windows.  Those tasks beautifully performed (as all work is) at SBOG, I could not wait to climb as high as possible into the Sierra’s and test it all out.

The first two nights I spent on my least favorite side, the west, at Lake Isabella; yet another relic of California’s fast disappearing man-made lakes.  It was depressing there with the dying trees, trickling “river” and algae filled “lake”.  Not a place to which I will return.  But I did manage to get my batteries down to 60% which would be a decent test for my DC to DC charging.

And I almost missed it.  

They charged up in about ninety minutes of driving.  This, like the lithium upgrade, is a game changer.  That means I can arrive at any new campsite with my batteries at 100%; no more pulling into an RV park for a night to charge things up.  Talk about freedom!

Confident that Beagle could handle below freezing, I headed to Bitterbrush Campground, about twelve miles west of Bishop, the only Forest Service Campground in the area open all year.  The campground sits at 6,800’, Beagle sat with her back to a lovely creek and her front facing up the valley to the snow-capped peak in the distance. 

Nights were well below freezing but there was enough solar to keep things at an acceptable level; I stayed four nights, the only camper to stay that long although every afternoon three or four others would show up just for the night. 

On day two, before heading out to hike, I set up my portable solar panels to assist with my fixed roof-top panels; I wanted to grab as much sunshine as possible.  As I was pulling away, I considered how easily someone could steal my portable panel; and how coveted they are right now.  My neighbor, two pitches down, traveling in a white panel van, circa 1960, with a hand-made chimney coming out the top wrapped in foil, watched as I packed up the dogs for the hike.  I thought about bringing in my portable panel but opted to choose freedom over fear; the additional solar power would bring me freedom of mind for the cold night ahead.

Returning later that afternoon, I was happy to see my faith in fellow campers paid off.  The solar brought my batteries to 98%.

That evening, three other sets of campers arrived and, around cocktail hour, the slow walk around the campground began along with the socializing which that often entails.  I watched from inside Beagle, listening to a Goldstein lecture on Buddhism, and wondered if there wasn’t something wrong with me.  Why do I always choose solitude over socializing?  But then I wondered, “Do extroverts questions why they don’t like to be alone?”  Maybe they should.  Why is it that the introverts feel the need to explain themselves? 

Things that make you go, “Hmmmm.” 

I was content, that is all that mattered and I didn’t feel like talking.

I spent the days trying to hike old favorites but was thwarted by roads closed for the winter.  I did find a new favorite, The Palisades, recommended to me by the clerk at one of the five (five!) outdoor gear shops in Bishop—no wonder I love it there.  The lead picture is of the Palisades Glacier hike, this one is what Opus and I looked like the entire time:

Although I was often hiking on snow, only one hike required my newly purchased ice-spikes.  A wonderful invention made of rubber and steel—the rubber part fitting over your boots anchoring the steel teeth to the bottom.  A necessity when hiking over ice fields.

It took me two times of slipping and gliding down ice fields to remember that I had the spikes.  Once attached to my boots, I cruised along like I was hot shit, practically running across the top of the snow and ice until, Thunk!  Post hole.

Post hole is a term I learned in Colorado:  For you non-hikers, it is how you describe the moment when you feel like one of your legs has disappeared.  You are walking along and then Thunk!  Down goes one of your legs, deep into the snow.  Usually at least to the knee, although I have had plenty of times when one leg was buried to mid-thigh.  These spots usually occur when (unbeknownst to you obviously) the snow is covering a field of small boulders and/or downed trees.

Now, since I was cruising along thinking I was the bee’s knees, when my right leg disappeared, my momentum kept me flying forward, causing my shin to hit a snow-buried boulder.  It smarted, and certainly slowed me down, but I continued to post-hole at least five more times before I stopped for lunch.  (It is tiring to heave your pack-laden body up with one leg.)

After refreshing myself, I decided to turn back; in an attempt to keep a sense of humor, I thought I would count the number of times I post-holed.  On the seventh one, as I was pushing with my left leg to haul my right leg up out of the hole, there was a second “thunk” and down went my left leg. 

At that point, I just leaned my butt against the snow-bank and laughed. 

The only way I knew to get out of a double post-hole was to roll to one side and drag my legs up together.  Which I did, and was rewarded by a lick on the nose from Opus.

Yes, Opus was off leash almost the entire time during the hikes.  He has become a great off-leash trail dog, coming when called and allowing himself to be leashed up again.  Quite unbelievable, I know, for those of you who have spent time chasing him.  But never fear, he has not lost his devilishness.

One morning, as I opened Beagle’s door to go get the dog food, a white blur shot between my legs.  I think he may have said, “Thank you very much”, but I cannot be sure as he was about one-hundred yards away before I realized it was Opus gone a huntin’.

I had a quick shot of panic and called out few hopeless, “Opus, come!” ‘s before I started to make my coffee.  I kept one eye on him; we were well away from the highway with a creek behind us, my only fear was of him attacking a bear.  But he was intent on a squirrel hole a few yards from the front door.  So I sat with my coffee and watched his little white tail jerk excitedly back and forth, head down, dirt flying between his legs, and tried to comfort River.  After about twenty minutes, I grabbed the Dentastix bag, rustled it a little and called, “Opus, hunting cookies!” and he ran right over.

I considered keeping him leashed on the hike that day but decided it would be better to allow him his freedom.  After all, he did return.  We hiked along a creek and were rewarded with birdsong for the first time of that trip--Spring was definitely in the air!

At the end of the hike, as I was getting River out of the car so we could all go play in the snow for a while, a fellow hiker began to ask me questions about the snow quality, depth, etc.  Turns out he was heading in to camp at the lake (my guess is it would have been at least a three-mile hike in from where we parked in front of the “road closed” sign—usually the road takes you right to the lake) and wondered if his sled of camp wood would be able to glide the entire time.  I assured him that it would, the snow was deep and nicely packed, “I never even post-holed once!” I exclaimed.  Then I noticed his gear:  Backpack clearly with bedroll and tent, really nice snow-worthy leather hiking boots (I did have some boot envy although I love mine, his were obviously meant for more snow than dirt), and the aforementioned sled filled with wood.  He was packing in and pulling a sled and, you guessed it, all alone.  Testing his love of solitude more than I could ever imagine.

Introverts united.  But don’t blink.

-K

PS:  This trip ended just before Alan’s birthday which, of course, had me thinking of him often.  I don’t believe that he is “watching over me” but I do imagine that, if he was, he would be proud of how I choose to live.  But not as proud as he would be of Opus.

The 2022 Inaugural Voyage

 

I cannot use “inaugural” without thinking about one of the last times I was able to hear Alan’s voice.   He had regained consciousness in the hospital and we were told to try and orient him to the present.  His daughter asked him, “It’s Inauguration Day, do you know who will be president?”

He thought about it for a minute then replied, “No.”

              “Donald Trump.”

              “You’re shitting me.”

God he made us laugh those last few days.

*

And so we are off beginning Beagle 2022, a year that promises to be the most exciting yet in large part due to my new lithium batteries and in immense part due to my acceptance that this is how I prefer to live.

I do have certain goals:  There will be a lot of hiking in Alaska this summer so this Winter through Spring I am turning myself into a lean, mean hiking machine.  Last year, my average miles driven per night in Beagle was over one-hundred miles a day.  Way, way, way too many miles each day and clearly not enough hiking.  (I do give myself a little slack for the fact that for most of 2021 I was either still being operated on or in some state of recovery.)  I would like to see that average be more like fifty by the end of 2022.

You find me today relaxing just outside Beagle in the dappled sunshine (my very favorite), listening to the creek running less than twenty yards from my door. River is at my side in her large, fluffy, blue bed, and Opus is recovering from our six-mile hike in the back of Wurzig (Opus, off leash for at least half of it, did more like nine miles including wading three times across the Sespe River [think creek].) When he wants to sleep, if he cannot be behind my knees, he opts for the warmth of the car and the security of his crate.

Beagle is luxuriating in the backcountry behind Ojai, California, at Wheeler Gorge Campground, a funky place but one to which I plan on returning often.  There is no cell service for miles and miles and, after the initial, “What in the hell?”, I have come to love it.  I do have my Garmin (satellite communication) for emergencies and at least two people always know on which trail I am hiking.  The weather is delightful; high 60’s at camp, low 50’s during the higher elevation hikes and cold nights.  Heaven.

Having camped twice in the KOA near Ojai (one-nighters on my way through the area), I am thrilled to have found this delightfully wooded and much more private spot.   We have developed a nice routine of peanut butter toast and coffee in bed (of course, we are not heathens—wait a minute, we are heathens…we are not Neanderthals), a half mile walk with both dogs, a quick clean out of Beagle, then settling River inside Beagle before taking off on a longer hike with Opus.  I try to not be gone more than four hours; although I know River is sleeping the entire time, I just worry about her.  When we return, Opus remains in the car for his aforementioned afternoon nap and I walk River alone; she prances slowly along, her spirit lifted by the thought that she might finally be the #1 Dog.

The first hike was up Chorro Grande, altitude averaging 4,500’ and only five miles.  But a nice start to get my legs reacquainted with a full pack. 

The second hike was up Piedra Blanca which was beautiful and quite easy so we quickly clocked six miles (my first time in the Sespe Wilderness!)

The final hike for this stop was up Matilija Creek Canyon, a mere three miles; the trail was difficult to follow after a mile-and-a-half, clambering over the many fallen trees and, after the second time I got one foot stuck between two narrow trunks, I turned around. 

Although short, the hike was oh so sweet as the entrance to the trail was through the Matilija Creek Ranch which, with its stone walls and sheltering oaks and the smell of live chicken and goats, took me back to Guejar Sierra, a lovely town in which Alan and I camped near Granada, Spain.

Wait, can we David Whyte that lovely phrase?  “…with its stone walls and sheltering oaks and the smell of live chicken and goats…”  Yes, worth repeating. 

I spent most of the hike reminiscing about the hikes we did from that picturesque town which started in the stone streets, flanked by stone walls, and wound up taking us through similar topography of soft, rolling hills and fresh flowing creeks.  Here sits the elegant, stone, Matilija Creek Ranch.   

You can imagine my thrill when, on the drive home, I turned back onto Highway 33 and saw…it’s hard to believe…a small Spanish man walking two heavily laden burros down the narrow highway.  I considered the fact that I might be in a time warp. 

Four nights in one spot and three good hikes.  An excellent start to 2022!

*

As most of you know, I am not a big one for the New Year meaning anything.  But starting out on this trip I did flash on the fact that ten years ago this month Alan and I were making our final plans to ship Salt, Pepper, two dogs and ourselves over to Europe for an unknown amount of time.  (You can still read about those adventures here.)  And five years ago this month (unbelievably), Alan woke up just in time to die.   

Take stock dear Reader, this is your life and the only thing you absolutely know for sure is that it will end.  To paraphrase Sam Harris, it doesn’t matter what you choose to do—you can sit and watch hours of YouTube videos, stare at a tree, read a book, go to work—just recognize that it is the choice you are making for your life; give yourself over to it, and live those moments completely.

According to my neighbor’s bumper sticker, “The purpose of life is to live it.”  It has beaten out my prior favorite, “I refuse to have a battle of wits with an unarmed person.”

-K