OKLAHOMA-TEXAS: WE’RE OFF!

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Sunday, May 31, we get going at 9:45 and traffic is surprisingly heavy for a Sunday a.m.  Took 60 east and eventually merged with I-10, working our way through ugly desert to Parker, AZ.  First sight of the Colorado River is startling as it is so blue and clear looking.  Went north a bit towards Havasu City, following the river with Cottonwoods and numerous parks and rv parks.  AZ has invested heavily in this area.  We stopped at Buckskin Mountain State Park and snagged a spot right across the path from the river.  This is a very nice park, $20/night for E&W, but this area of the river is very heavy on the power boats and jet skis, and the roaring engines are a pain.  95 degrees on arrival, but the AC worked and cooled us right down.  Used the new Progressive Industries power monitor for the first time and got a reading at first of 117v, which dropped to 112v very quickly and stayed there.  Put black tape over the readout so it wouldn’t attract a thief in the night, then chained and locked the sucker.  Scrumptious salmon with sticky rice & green beans for dinner.  Total yum.

Monday, June 1.  6:30, out the door and “power walk” for 40 minutes, then over to the very clean showers, breakfast, and off at 8:30.  Getting better.  Headed southeast to the I-10, which is the only way to continue east, and played with the trucks all the way to Phoenix.  Used Gertrude to guide us through the city and she did so without a hitch.  Picked up US 60 at the SE side of the city, motored uphill to Globe through moderately interesting terrain. At Superior, we fell for a “tourist rest stop” sign (thought we’d stop for lunch), and instead got a detour through the town which was totally depressing, with 75% of the shops boarded up.  No rest area, and the scenery was not conducive to the old appetite.  Kept going on 60 and found ourselves winding through the Salt River Canyon.  this is more like it.  Sheer walls, a nifty bridge, switchback roads --- IOW, rv heaven. 

We’d descend 3,000 fit, then climb right back up again.  Spotted a fire just starting on the opposite ridge (across the river) which a lone helo with water bucket was trying to douse.  Not a chance.  With the winds, this sucker was growing fast as we passed out of view.  At least it was in the middle of nowhere.  We arrived at ShowLow (somebody’s winning hand back in the 1800’s was a deuce of clubs) which is at 6300 feet and blessedly cool.  We found the Fool’s Hollow Lake Recreation area, which is a very nice joint state-fed park built about 10 years ago.  Very very nice, with huge spaces, tall pines, a small lake, and hot showers.  Spent a very nice night under light blanket.  We finally feel we’re on our trip.

Tuesday, June 2.  Cool temps call for oatmeal & coffee, so we indulged and skipped the morning walk.  BAD campers.  We vowed to make it up this evening, but . . . Decided to go on SR260 loop instead of US60, and it was an excellent choice.  Beautiful alpine mountain drive through pine and aspen forests, small lakes, long-distance views, high plateaus.  big oohs and ahs all the way.  We rejoined US60 at Eagar and gradually descended through rolling plains.  OK, it was 50 mile views of nothing.  We are headed for the deliciously named Pie Town. Our “Great Road Trips USA” lauded the rejuvenation of the town’s pie history by a new bakeress who opened the “Pie-O-Neer” cafe.  As luck would have it, or my luck at any rate, they are closed Tuesdays and Wednesdays.  Augh!  The only other place in town (it stretches for all of one sparse block) also advertised their pie-centric menu, so we gave it a try.  Two tiny BLT’s, water, and 2 pie-a-la-modes later, tax and tip, and we were down $30 and thinking Mrs. Smith’s has nothing to worry about.  Her pies are alive and well in Pie Town.  This is why we eat in the rig! 

Next stop was the Very Large Array Telescope, which stretches across 20+ miles of desert.  We had to turn off 60 and go 4 miles to the Array center.  Gertrude had fits, getting lost and trying to get us to turn into the desert, and once insisted we immediately turn onto the railroad tracks we were crossing.  Shut her off before she kills us.  The Array was interesting, with nice displays in the center, and a walking path out to one of the dishes.  There are 27 of them, situated in a big Y shape, with nine to each leg.   They sit on railroad tracks so they can be moved for narrow or wide sky vision.  It was a worthwhile visit as it was on our way, but I wouldn’t make much of a detour to see it.  The day was getting late, so we decided to stay in Socorro NM for the night.  There are no nearby state parks, so we opted for Casey’s RV park, a gravel lot with wispy trees and dodgy neighbors. No walking tonight.  Baths out of order, but they did have good wifi, so we got caught up on emails all evening.

ALAS, POOR THYROID, WE HARDLY KNEW YE

More fun and games with the bod. The last PET scan showed atypical cells on the left node of my thryoid. Not all that unusual, many people have them and they are almost always benign. But, given my history (see the Cancer Chronicles), we did a needle biopsy, which was "inconclusive." Bring on the cutters! May 5 found Loni and I at 0-dark:30 (that's 4:45am for you lubbers) at UCLA's admitting room to go through the drills for a 7:30 hemi-or-full thyroidectomy, depending on what they found. The best part, of course, is the always popular hospital gown that never seems to quite cover your butt, even a skinny one like mine. Why that indignity endures is a mystery. Surely there's a better design.

UCLA is a teaching hospital. Fortunately, May is a great month to be a patient. The newbie docs don't arrive until mid-summer, so you get the more experienced interns and residents who have had almost a whole year to practice on less fortunate others. I met three surgeons, none of whom was my Dr. K who promised me he would do the cutting himself (where were his fingers when he was saying that?). Three gas passers at separate times, so each wanted his/her own history. It looked like I was going to have either quite an audience or an awful lot of fingers in my throat. Dr. K was the last to look in, and was the most welcome. If you need head/neck surgery, folks, this is your guy.

This was a full-anaesthesia procedure, so after we confirmed this was not for a lobotomy, the mask went on and I went out. Next I knew I was in the surgical observation ward, gazing goofily around with a sore neck. "Hi," said Loni, so I figured they hadn't killed me. The surroundings were doing their best, however. The SOW is a large hall, with 3-wall alcoves for each bed, and a curtain across the front. That's about it. There's a little t.v on a big arm that had the worst resolution I've seen on any set since an old Muntz in the '50's. Nothing wrong with the sound, though. I could hear without any strain the blast from the guy in the bed across from me who, it would turn out, was partially deaf and addicted to "Greatest Cop Chases," which apparently runs on a continuous basis all day long. I had been looking forward to sampling a private room, as this is the new UCLA hospital, which just opened last year. Not to be. They finally told me, six hours later, the place was "overbooked" and they had no room for me. I'd either have to stay in the ward that night or, if I was up to it, check out. Adios.

The operation removed only the left lobe. While I was out on the table they did a quick pathology analysis of that tissue and found the lumps were not malignant. So they left the right side in and sewed me up. See the nice smiley scar! A week later, the final path report came back and it found a micro-cancer of about 2mm size. This, of course, had been cut out with the left lobe. For now, they don't plan to do anything except to monitor the right side with regular ultrasound to see if anything starts growing there. Hmmm. Nothing like a little uncertainty. Guess that's better than hearing, "It's b-a-a-a-c-k." I'll take it.

Scooter Mania

Anybody remember the "mods" and the "rockers" that duked it out it England in the '60s?

The Mods, or modernists, as they were known, were a sub culture that liked Scooters, ska music, parka jackets and were generally regarded as being the smarter dressed of the two groups.

The Rockers preferred motorcycles and had their own uniform which consisted of a black leather jacket, denim jeans, black leather boots with white socks which were rolled over the tops of the boots. A white scarf was regarded as a great fashion accessory.

Rockers and Mods were often engaged in brawls. BBC News stories from May 1964 stated that mods and rockers were jailed after riots in seaside resort towns on the south coast of England. Fights occurred where territories overlapped or rival factions happened upon each other.

Skip forward to the "oughts," and the dichotomy still exists, although without the attendant animosity. We went on an outing recently with the LA Scooter Club through the hills behind Malibu. First stop was the infamous "Rock Store" in the middle of the mountains, long a hangout destination for bikers. The scoots arrived, more or less en masse, and we slotted in with the hogs and the boy racers. That's us on the left in the lime green and red (pictures courtesy of "Scootz Kapboots", the rally organizer):

The scoots are a cheerful bunch, without the requisite posturing of the bad ass bikers:

After a couple of hours through the canyons and back roads, we met up with a group from Ventura
for a joint ride down the coast on Pacific Coast Highway (Hwy 1) to another biker hangout north of Malibu called Neptune's Net for a late lunch. There, the bikers had already occupied all of the real estate in front of NN on the land side of PCH, so the scoots were obliged to line up on the ocean side in a cross-highway faceoff. Shades of "TheWild One."
No fisticuffs ensued, and the only damage done was to our digestive systems. EVERYthing is fried. After this it was a straight shot for us down PCH to home. The others had to wander considerably further back across the mountains to home.

SCOOTIN & PADDLING AT MORRO BAY

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Last week we drug Albatross out of storage, gave it a bath, and loaded up for a long weekend at Morro Bay State Park. This is a gem of a park in a beautiful setting. This was our second visit, and as last year it was with the Yahoo West LazyDazers. 27 rigs were in attendance, which is way up from last year. We also got to spend time with Keith and Gloria who showed up in their SOB Class A, sporting Cal decals all over the back. Keith and I went to high school together in Modesto, and we hadn’t seen them in quite a while. According to the camp host, who’s been there for five months, we lucked into the first weekend of good weather. We made good use of it. The kayak got its maiden voyage! First step is to unbag it and roll it out. That’s the footpump to the right.

Next, you find a willing foot.

There’s bound to be one handy. :)

A few minutes and a distaff charleyhorse later . . .

It’s just light enough for the two of us to carry, but the cord handholds get pretty uncomfortable after a while, so we’ll have to rig up some handles to fit over them. We lugged it over to the boat harbor to launch, attracting quite a ghoulish following along the way who no doubt had visions of punctures, swamping, and general mayhem. Larry and Renee effortlessly wheeled their carbon fiber kayaks over on little carts. Hmmm. They know the estuary and harbor well, had actually researched the tides (say, what?), and kindly kept tabs on us newbies. Disappointing the assembled camera-wielding masses, the launch went off without a hitch. I tested the stability by rocking side to side and got a whack with the paddle from the rear seat. No more testing. The tide was slack, the wind was calm, and off we went, looking quite coordinated thank you very much. That lasted until we hit the first current. Now, as in canoes, the back seater is the helmsperson and is responsible for keeping the straight course by dragging the paddle to the left or right side as necessary. Well, that’s the theory. And, after about a half hour of gentle reminders, terse directions, and silent epithets, el pilota got it into practice. Next time, we’ll be exchanging seats. We paddled north into the harbor area of the city of Morro Bay. Everything from gorgeous yachts to derelict cement barges was anchored there, and the resident sea lion left his feeding spot by a restaurant pier to dive around Larry’s kayak. Flocks of seabirds were skimming the surface and a couple of otters were trolling along. It was a beautiful paddle. The Sea Eagle isn’t as directionally stable, nor as fast as the hard kayaks, but it will serve us just fine for the casual poking about on lakes and streams. It’s rated for Class III rapids, but we’ll just have to take their word for it. After two hours of paddling, we dragged our dead arms out and walked 50 feet to the Bayside Cafe for clam chowder and a wedge of carrot cake the size of Manhattan. Home made. Oh, yeah. The previous evening we ate there and I had the best seafood pasta I’ve ever eaten, along with a warm boysenberry cobbler (with heavy cream to pour over). Two Lipitor, please. Did I mention my taster is much improved? :p

The next day we noticed a classic Vespa on a trailer a couple of campsites over. When the owner came out to get ready to take it out, I went over to admire and smooze. He said he’d seen ours the night before and assumed we were there for “the ride.” Ride? What ride? Turns out the San Luis Obispo Scooter Club was sponsoring one of the main scooter events on the West Coast, a 114 mile ride along the bay and back into the wine country, starting in just 30 minutes from SLO, about 15 miles away. We had been all set to go hiking with the LDers at Montano De Oro State Park, which we had done last year, but we couldn’t resist a mass scooter ride through wine country. The guy left us the turn-by-turn route instructions, then took off to make the start. We had to get ourselves ready, so we didn’t make the start, but intercepted the pack about ten miles into the rallye, at Los Osos Valley Road and Turri Road, if anyone’s tracking. Quite a sight to see 80-85 scooters strung out down the road. We jumped in towards the end of the line and had a blast for the next four or five hours. The Central Coast area is especially green right now after all the rains we’ve had, and the two-lane back roads are all curves, dips, and hills. We kept up just fine, thank you.

We had to bail out before the very end, which was at a park in SLO where they were to have a barbeque and raffle for a classic Vespa. We had to get back to Morro for the Saturday potluck and Loni had some cooking to do. As usual, the dishes were varied and tasty and no one went home hungry.

Sunday we packed up and went to load the scoot on the rack. One of the other LDers wanted to take a few photos of the process, and three guys at the adjacent campsite were observing as well. So, of course, I blew it. Done this dozens of times without a hitch. 37th time is the charm. We load the thing by firing it up and gently (key word) throttling it up the ramp and onto the rack while I walk beside and below it, holding on to the grips and throttle. As it was just making the transition from the ramp to the track, I made a misstep, stumbled, and opened the throttle. The scoot did a wheelie, jumped the stop at the end of the track, flew up into the air, swan dived the 3 or 4 feet to the ground, all the while with me holding on for dear life. It and I both ended up on our sides, the scoot with a nice dent in the left sidepod, an me with the mother of all subdural hematomas on my right tricep. Not sure what hit it, but the rack ripped the pocket off my jeans as the final indignity. Sigh. All I needed was an audience. The scoot still runs straight and I’m still upright. Fortunately for what’s left of my ego, the guy taking pictures stopped when things went haywire, so there are no photos of the launch.

Indignity needs drowning, and we took off for SLO to have dinner with my fraternity bro, Paul. Paul personally knows every winemaker in the Central Coast, and has a very well-stocked wine cabinet and cooks a mean roast beef (with Yorkshire pudding!). There were seven at dinner, and we managed to polish off a minor portion of his stock. We had the champagnes with local artisan cheeses. The magnum of Marlstone and the Justin Isosceles were incredible with the beef, and the Zin Port was served with homemade chocolate truffles. Paul, you da man! After all that, there was nothing left but to go home.

Sea Eagle Has Landed

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UPS today dropped off our Sea Eagle inflatable kayak in two boxes. We opened them on the porch and put everything together to make sure it held air, etc. Actually, the only things to put together were the paddles, which had snap-button connections, easy as pie. The kayak is one long piece that has three inflatable sections: both sides, and the bottom. It comes with a foot pump that was all set to go. Just insert the nozzle into one of the three fill valves and start pumping. Each filled quite fast, probably a minute or two for each. There are two inflatable seats that took only a couple of pumps each and they were ready. It really was simple to set up. Too bad we don't have a lake close by. I'm not ready to try to launch it in the waves down at Will Rogers Beach! It's rated for class 3 rapids (uh-huh, not for me, I think) and is said to do better in the ocean than on lakes. We'll give that proposition a tryout when we go to Morro Bay in a couple of weeks. I'll have to get cracking and buy some life vests or we're sure to get nailed by the harbor patrol. Everything folds up quite nicely in the big bag, although we opted to keep the paddles in a separate one. Now, where are we going to stuff this thing in the RV?

BUSTED!

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Wrong place at the wrong time. On our way to the Caravan at Buena Vista Aquatic Recreation Area (whew! BV, from now on), we were tooling along in the northbound slow lane on the I-405 just before it gets to the junction with the I-5. A trash truck was parked on the shoulder and I could see the driver hanging on to the side where the cab met the bed. I could only drift to the leftmost side of my lane as there was a car next to me. Just as we passed the truck, the driver gave a mighty pull and yanked something from the space behind the cab. Unfortunately, the prodigious pull flung his arm all the way into the traffic lane and his hand collided with the front housing of our right mirror. KaBAM! We stopped and backed up, inspected the damage (broken glass in the mirror, and who knows what with his hand). We exchanged information, but he had called his supervisor, so we waited around for him to arrive. The driver seemed to be writing all right with the hand, but that might have been adrenalin working. Supervisor arrived, he took his pictures, told me to get an estimate for repair, gave me his card and that was that. I hope. If the driver tries to make a claim against my insurance he's in for a fight.

BV, once we got there, was a very nice place in the middle of nowhere. It's 23 miles SW of Bakersfield, to the west of the I-5, towards Taft. Two lakes, one quite big, allowing powerboating, fishing, etc. Huge pull-through sites with full hookups. Trees for shade and plenty of open area for games, etc. Who knew? I guess the LD Caravaners did. We've been up I-5 many dozens of times and never had a clue anything was out in this remote corner of the Valley.

I inveigled Loni into participating in the washer toss tournament, with the usual protests of not being any good at that stuff, etc. etc. Turns out she did just as well as anyone, and loved it! I know, I know, washer toss? Sounds like the quintessential geriatric pastime, and I guess that's what it looks like. But, all smirking aside, it's a lot of fun. The weird scoring keeps it interesting, and the luck factor accounting for 75% of what happens keeps everyone in the game.

We went exploring on the scoot, intent on going over the mountains to the west to another lake. We ended up in a sea of oil rigs dating back to the early 1900's. When we pushed on, the paved road turned to dirt, and then to mud in the low parts. We forded one mire, but turned back as we were sinking up to the rims. The Vespa isn't made for off-roading. We did stumble across the hamlet of Tupman. Since that's the last name of Mom's friends in Indy, we took a picture and later sent it on to them. Offered to steal a sign. :)

At the gathering I told my tale of mirror woe and was offered a free set of replacement mirrors by the resident go-to guy for all things dealing with LD repairs. He had a number of them in his garage resulting from others upgrading to the bigger wide-view mirrors. When we got back to L.A., I picked them up and installed the right one in about 90 seconds. Bingo, and no claim against the trash company.