Feb. 27th, 2014
Well ladies and gents, due to forces apparently beyond our control, I won't be able to do any more blogging. Thanks for reading and enjoying what I was able to post and I guess we'll see you on down the road.
Adios amigos!
Thursday, February 27, 2014
Sunday, February 23, 2014
On The Level
February 23, 2014
What a difference a few days can make - we left Sedona with the glowing feeling that not only had we experienced one of the greatest places the country had to offer but that our decision to buy a motorhome and hit the road was one of the best we'd ever made. Forty-eight hours later we were discussing the procedure that we needed to begin in order to dump this God-cursed mechanical headache and return to normal life. What happened?
Our first stop was an overnight RV campground just east of Albuquerque - hey it was going to be the nostalgia of Route 66, right? (Overnight RV camps are sites that are located just off the interstates, catering to RVers who just need a place to sleep on their way to more desirable destinations. They are usually lacking any amenities and are strictly utilitarian.) Welcome to the Mecca Of Utilitarianism:
What a difference a few days can make - we left Sedona with the glowing feeling that not only had we experienced one of the greatest places the country had to offer but that our decision to buy a motorhome and hit the road was one of the best we'd ever made. Forty-eight hours later we were discussing the procedure that we needed to begin in order to dump this God-cursed mechanical headache and return to normal life. What happened?
Our first stop was an overnight RV campground just east of Albuquerque - hey it was going to be the nostalgia of Route 66, right? (Overnight RV camps are sites that are located just off the interstates, catering to RVers who just need a place to sleep on their way to more desirable destinations. They are usually lacking any amenities and are strictly utilitarian.) Welcome to the Mecca Of Utilitarianism:
Yep - on a sloping hill of dirt, someone hired a road grader to come in and level a bunch of "sites" and after adding the electrical, water and sewer connections declared this to be an RV park. I'm reasonably certain that we were the only ones there so I kept The Equalizer next to the bed for the night. We actually thought it was kind of funny and Mary Ellen had some fun emailing pictures of our resort to the kids and a few friends. The reactions ranged from "OMG!" to "Eeek!"
The next morning we had our longest drive ahead of us, 412 miles to Fort Stockton, Texas (of "Buffalo Soldiers" fame.) Our route would take us from the Albuquerque area southeast along Route 85 through eastern New Mexico and into the wilds of West Texas that Marty Robbins sang about. Now, I don't want to disparage anyone from New Mexico and you can chalk this up to eastern snobbery but I have no idea how anyone can live out there. To say there is nothing is an understatement. Take a look:
This is EXACTLY what we drove through for almost eight hours. As far as the eye can see, hour after hour after hour. It was so empty that Mary Ellen decided to try driving again and really did well. Within an hour she was holding it steady and finally relaxed for a while. Occasionally we would pass through some sadly dilapidated little village, almost a ghost town, with faded signs, closed buildings and all the requisite cars up on cinder blocks. But passing through was really a matter of missing it if you blinked and then...back to the realm of emptiness. We did pass through the town of Roswell (of Area 51 fame) and were quite surprised with the first half of it. The town is very large and modern with a huge military academy. But right after that we entered nothing but a larger version of what we had seen earlier - closed stores and businesses, and a bleak remnant of what must have been a vibrant and prosperous western town (until the aliens landed at least.)
Onward we pushed towards Carlsbad and the border of Texas. As we're passing through Carlsbad (and just as we pass a Ford dealership) an alarm begins sounding from the dashboard, a series of twenty-five beeps (we counted them later) which repeated every three minutes. Everything seems to be OK but we pull over and start doing a visual inspection of the outside. Mary Ellen soon discovers the problem: from the compartment where our "house" batteries are located, a steady stream of reddish liquid is streaming out of the bottom. But that's not the best part - it must have been dripping for a while because not only is the mystery reservoir now empty but the back of the RV, the towing mechanism and my new Jeep Wrangler looks like someone has been spraying them for a while with the red goo. The cables, the license plate the windshield, the cloth top...all soaked and stained. Despite this mess we are able to pull into the Ford dealership and get one of the departing techs (it's four thirty on a Saturday afternoon) to stop and take a look at it. It turns out the reservoir contained the hydraulic fluid that powers our leveling jacks. I ask him about the possibility of fixing it and he tells me the nearest place that can work on it is in El Paso - three hundred miles away. But, he says, we can still drive with it...we just can't level it out when we stop. Since we can't level it out we can't extend our slide so now we are down to half the space in an already intimate atmosphere.
Reluctantly we do the only thing we can do, continue on our journey and when we reach San Antonio forty-eight hours from now, look for a large enough shop that can figure out what happened and fix it. For the entire next four hundred miles, every three minutes, the beeping begins again, driving us even further out of our minds with aggravation and misery. That night we stay at a pleasant little RV park near Fort Stockton, complete with shade trees, a little cafe attached to the office and a spectacular display of stars - it's the first time I've been able to see the Milky Way in years. Talking in bed before passing out, we conclude that on a scale of one to ten, so far RVing barely gets a three. Looking back we can see all the mistakes we made and decide to give it three more months before we cash in our chips and chalk the whole miserable experience up to another lesson learned.
But by the morning we are taking positive action, finding a reputable RV repair facility in San Antonio who can "level" us out and looking forward to the next day's excursion to see the Alamo and San Antonio's famous River Walk. We arrive at our RV park for the night and are dismayed to find that we've been assigned to a spot on the side of a hill. With no leveling jacks we are once more without the elbow room the slide-out will provide. Still, we decide to hang in there for one more day and after hooking up all the utilities, turn to unhitching the Jeep for tomorrow's sightseeing. But with the day's road dirt and debris mixing with the still-tacky hydraulic fluid, we are soon both covered with a black, greasy sludge. Our clothes are ruined, our hands will probably never be clean again and we look like a couple of diesel mechanics at a Texas truck stop. All of our hopeful good vibes from the morning are gone, we're back to second-guessing everything we've been trying to do for the last three months and our heads are filled with thoughts of what a nice place we can afford to rent until der kinder decide where they are going to land.
Tonight I'll be showering with a bottle of grease-cutting dish detergent instead of a bar of soap and recalling how we gave up our home in Rumson for the joys of Rving...
Friday, February 21, 2014
February 21, 2014
And so we left the sadly used London Bridge and disappointing Lake Havasu behind and headed for what many people (who follow those things) regard as one of the most spiritually powerful spots on earth - Sedona, Arizona. But first we had to get there...
It was a relatively short ride up to Flagstaff and then only forty miles south to our destination. About ten miles after leaving Interstate 40 and heading towards Sedona, we begin seeing these large and serious yellow signs about the eighteen mile, 6% downgrade we are about to start down. Trucks use low gear, no passing, runaway truck lanes ahead and Mary Ellen is ready to curl up in the fetal position next to Daisy under the dashboard. I try to reassure her that we've done this before, etc. but she sees through my lie. On top of the downgrade, there is a fierce wind blowing directly across the road (winds so strong that later on we learn were the top story on the local news stations.) I stay in the right lane with the fully loaded tractor trailers, the wind is pulling the wheel to the left and towards the steep drop off that fortunately Mary Ellen can't see from where she is sitting. Now for the best part: cars, tractor-trailers and other RVs are FLYING past us as if on a suicide mission, all determined to crash through the guardrail and disappear into the sagebrush and boulders far, far below. It made the northbound parkway during the A.M. rush hour look like everyone is doing 20 MPH. But we make it down to the town of Camp Verde and arrive at another Indian casino RV park and turn in early for our full day in Sedona.
For those into extrasensory and para-normal activities, Sedona is supposed to be one of the most powerfully spiritual places on earth. I had also heard that it was a town filled with aging, ex-hippies, none of whom were growing old gracefully. Consequently I wasn't expecting much when we headed up to town and rounding a bend got our first glimpse of what it is really famous for:
Everywhere you look, the scenery is beyond spectacular. I only wish these photos could present these buttes and mesas in their actual glory.
So, that's the real Sedona. For those of you who want the fancy restaurants, spas, trendy boutiques, touristy souvenir shops or just the t-shirt, there is plenty of that to fill a week with. But no matter what your tastes, go to Sedona for the scenery. Wherever you are in the southwest, make the effort; these photos only give a hint of the glowing feeling Sedona leaves you with. Perhaps that's the real spirituality of the town.
Tomorrow we begin the nearly thousand mile journey to San Antonio to do the River Walk and see the Alamo. It will be a three day trip through northern Arizona, down through New Mexico (and of course, Roswell) and then into west Texas. It should be a hoot!
And so we left the sadly used London Bridge and disappointing Lake Havasu behind and headed for what many people (who follow those things) regard as one of the most spiritually powerful spots on earth - Sedona, Arizona. But first we had to get there...
It was a relatively short ride up to Flagstaff and then only forty miles south to our destination. About ten miles after leaving Interstate 40 and heading towards Sedona, we begin seeing these large and serious yellow signs about the eighteen mile, 6% downgrade we are about to start down. Trucks use low gear, no passing, runaway truck lanes ahead and Mary Ellen is ready to curl up in the fetal position next to Daisy under the dashboard. I try to reassure her that we've done this before, etc. but she sees through my lie. On top of the downgrade, there is a fierce wind blowing directly across the road (winds so strong that later on we learn were the top story on the local news stations.) I stay in the right lane with the fully loaded tractor trailers, the wind is pulling the wheel to the left and towards the steep drop off that fortunately Mary Ellen can't see from where she is sitting. Now for the best part: cars, tractor-trailers and other RVs are FLYING past us as if on a suicide mission, all determined to crash through the guardrail and disappear into the sagebrush and boulders far, far below. It made the northbound parkway during the A.M. rush hour look like everyone is doing 20 MPH. But we make it down to the town of Camp Verde and arrive at another Indian casino RV park and turn in early for our full day in Sedona.
For those into extrasensory and para-normal activities, Sedona is supposed to be one of the most powerfully spiritual places on earth. I had also heard that it was a town filled with aging, ex-hippies, none of whom were growing old gracefully. Consequently I wasn't expecting much when we headed up to town and rounding a bend got our first glimpse of what it is really famous for:
Everywhere you look, the scenery is beyond spectacular. I only wish these photos could present these buttes and mesas in their actual glory.
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| Herself doing the Ansel Adams routine |
No matter which direction you choose to look in, sights like these are what you see.
Now for the highlight of all the wonderful sights in this beautiful valley:
This is an actual Catholic Church, the brainchild of a sculptor who later teamed up with Frank Lloyd Wright to make it a reality. It was completed in 1955 and has a full Sunday mass schedule.
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| The road up to the chapel |
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| How would you like to live in this neighborhood? |
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| Climbing the ramp up to the chapel |
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| The entrance plaza |
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| How's this for a place to get married? |
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| The Stations of the Cross are done with nails only. |
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| On the way back down, Mary Ellen spotted this eagle's head - see it? |
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| A view of the entire town from the highest point available |
So, that's the real Sedona. For those of you who want the fancy restaurants, spas, trendy boutiques, touristy souvenir shops or just the t-shirt, there is plenty of that to fill a week with. But no matter what your tastes, go to Sedona for the scenery. Wherever you are in the southwest, make the effort; these photos only give a hint of the glowing feeling Sedona leaves you with. Perhaps that's the real spirituality of the town.
Tomorrow we begin the nearly thousand mile journey to San Antonio to do the River Walk and see the Alamo. It will be a three day trip through northern Arizona, down through New Mexico (and of course, Roswell) and then into west Texas. It should be a hoot!
Thursday, February 20, 2014
London Bridge Is Falling Down
February 19th, 2014
And so our time in Southern California has finally come to an end. We intended to stay there for two weeks...and ended up staying there for exactly two months. But during that time most of the glitches we discovered in our RV motorhome when we first picked it up have been repaired, we actually know how to operate all (most) of its features and we have our hook-up procedure down to a swift ten minutes. And of course, we finally got our new mirror assembly.
In reading reports from other experienced RVers, we have learned that 300 miles a day is about it for people our age; after that the crankies set in and nothing is fun anymore. When researching spots to stay on our way back east, we mapped out destinations which would stay close to that 300 mile mark but still have enough interest to keep us motivated to get there. Our first stop then was to be Lake Havasu City, on the Colorado River between Arizona and California, where the actual London Bridge is located. It is just under the mileage we are aiming for and for us, it is pretty high interest (the London Bridge, I mean.)
To get there though we had to drive out of the lush and heavily populated Orange County, California and across the Mojave Desert. Thirty-three years ago we took this same route and at the time both of us thought that it was one of the most scenic and spectacular days of our ten day vacation "out west." Fortunately, our encore produced the same emotions in us. It's startling to realize that Manhattan and the Mojave are part of the same country - one characterized by its intense pace, population, soaring buildings and frantic pace while the other is as bleak and empty as possible. Both have their appeal for those who are willing to keep an open mind. The Mojave's interest stems from its characteristic emptiness but the mountains and dry washes beg the question - how can anyone or anything live out here? At first, heading east out of Barstow, there are still some random ranches or trailers but within an hour no civilization remains. A hundred thousand years ago it probably looked exactly like it does now. While the rest of the world went through its various stages of settlements, cities, countries, wars and progress, the Mojave stayed exactly as you can see it today. How anyone ever crossed it before modern conveniences is almost beyond belief - but they did. We took a lot of pictures but since they all look identical, I'll only post three:
Picture four hours of these and that's the Mojave.
Another rule we broke was never to arrive at a place after dark. It's bad enough trying to drive this behemoth with the Jeep attached but doing it in a strange town at night is is maddening. It adds to the fun when you don't have a reservation and are driving around for an hour to three different places all of which tell you they are completely filled - on a Monday night in February?!? Now I know how Mary and Joseph felt. Finally one guy takes pity on us and says we can "dry camp" (real camping with no hook-ups, in other words, no electricity, water or sewer, basically just us in a large, hard-sided tent) on one of his back lots. As for Lake Havasu and the London Bridge, my advice is skip it. I pictured this wide spot on the Colorado River dammed up to form a lake with a few hotels, RV parks and some boating concessions. Instead, it is a massive collection of big box stores, bars, fast-food joints and people who make us look young... think Shadow Lake meets Seaside Heights. And the London Bridge? If you weren't aware of it, you'd never even realize you were crossing it; it's just another conveyance across a channel. Had I set it up, it would have been the centerpiece of the town, surrounded by a large park with lots of public accommodations and classy looking signs describing it as a piece of history as well as the story of how it got here. Instead it's pedestrian as can be. See for yourself:
And so our time in Southern California has finally come to an end. We intended to stay there for two weeks...and ended up staying there for exactly two months. But during that time most of the glitches we discovered in our RV motorhome when we first picked it up have been repaired, we actually know how to operate all (most) of its features and we have our hook-up procedure down to a swift ten minutes. And of course, we finally got our new mirror assembly.
In reading reports from other experienced RVers, we have learned that 300 miles a day is about it for people our age; after that the crankies set in and nothing is fun anymore. When researching spots to stay on our way back east, we mapped out destinations which would stay close to that 300 mile mark but still have enough interest to keep us motivated to get there. Our first stop then was to be Lake Havasu City, on the Colorado River between Arizona and California, where the actual London Bridge is located. It is just under the mileage we are aiming for and for us, it is pretty high interest (the London Bridge, I mean.)
To get there though we had to drive out of the lush and heavily populated Orange County, California and across the Mojave Desert. Thirty-three years ago we took this same route and at the time both of us thought that it was one of the most scenic and spectacular days of our ten day vacation "out west." Fortunately, our encore produced the same emotions in us. It's startling to realize that Manhattan and the Mojave are part of the same country - one characterized by its intense pace, population, soaring buildings and frantic pace while the other is as bleak and empty as possible. Both have their appeal for those who are willing to keep an open mind. The Mojave's interest stems from its characteristic emptiness but the mountains and dry washes beg the question - how can anyone or anything live out here? At first, heading east out of Barstow, there are still some random ranches or trailers but within an hour no civilization remains. A hundred thousand years ago it probably looked exactly like it does now. While the rest of the world went through its various stages of settlements, cities, countries, wars and progress, the Mojave stayed exactly as you can see it today. How anyone ever crossed it before modern conveniences is almost beyond belief - but they did. We took a lot of pictures but since they all look identical, I'll only post three:
Picture four hours of these and that's the Mojave.
Another rule we broke was never to arrive at a place after dark. It's bad enough trying to drive this behemoth with the Jeep attached but doing it in a strange town at night is is maddening. It adds to the fun when you don't have a reservation and are driving around for an hour to three different places all of which tell you they are completely filled - on a Monday night in February?!? Now I know how Mary and Joseph felt. Finally one guy takes pity on us and says we can "dry camp" (real camping with no hook-ups, in other words, no electricity, water or sewer, basically just us in a large, hard-sided tent) on one of his back lots. As for Lake Havasu and the London Bridge, my advice is skip it. I pictured this wide spot on the Colorado River dammed up to form a lake with a few hotels, RV parks and some boating concessions. Instead, it is a massive collection of big box stores, bars, fast-food joints and people who make us look young... think Shadow Lake meets Seaside Heights. And the London Bridge? If you weren't aware of it, you'd never even realize you were crossing it; it's just another conveyance across a channel. Had I set it up, it would have been the centerpiece of the town, surrounded by a large park with lots of public accommodations and classy looking signs describing it as a piece of history as well as the story of how it got here. Instead it's pedestrian as can be. See for yourself:
Come on! They asphalt-paved THE London Bridge?!? Except for the British flags and the ornate light stanchions, you'd never realize it was anything special.And forget the park I had in mind - each side is surrounded with bars, nightclubs and McRestaurants. In short, the ride down here was a bust.
Tomorrow we head out for another Indian casino RV park and supposedly one of the most highly spiritual places in the country, Sedona, Arizona. (I just realized that rhymes...I feel a dirty limerick coming on...)
Thursday, February 13, 2014
Hangin' Ten In Surf City
February 13, 2014
Realizing today that after almost two months in Southern California we hadn't been to the beach once, we saddled up the bikes on the Jeep and headed for Huntington Beach, the surfing mecca made popular in the old Jan and Dean song "Surf City." Although ostensibly to "get some fresh air" says Mary Ellen, her real motive was to get another cold lobster salad sandwich and a Margarita at one of her favorite outdoor cafes, Longboards, on the town's main drag.
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| Herself explaining how to order food from a menu |
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| Sure baby... |
Even in the slow season it's still mobbed so we were fortunate enough to get a parking spot directly across the street.
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| How's that for a lucky spot? |
It was a perfect, sunny day with the temperature around 70. I honestly do feel a little guilty publishing these pictures because I know what everyone back in New Jersey is suffering through right now. Mary Ellen even admitted that she's feeling a little deprived missing all the snow; I'm sure everyone up there who is swallowing Advil by the handful right now to ease the aches and pains of snow shoveling will be greatly comforted by that.
After enjoying a few drafts with my Reuben and pasta salad (I'm just going total Cali), we unloaded the bikes and walked them down a block and a half to the beach. Huntington Beach has, besides their famous pier, an eight mile walking/biking/running/roller-blading course that is as straight as it is flat and which stretches four miles on either side of the pier. We started out to the south...
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| The Huntington Beach Pier |
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| Pulling away... |
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| Even further now, trying to lose me... |
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| Those are some industrial strength tires |
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| Looking back to the pier from our farthest point south |
Huntington Pier is beautifully maintained (as everything seems to be in California) and along its length are a few shops selling "beachy" type accessories, t-shirts, kites, etc. Further out there is a bait and tackle shop for the fishermen; you can even rent a rod and reel to try your luck. I presume that someday I'll be one of the old guys with a rod stuck in a holder on the rail, asleep on my folding chair living La Vida Fishy but until then I'm just not into the pier fishing scene. But that's just me - there are dozens of theses piers up and down the California coast and someone even published a book giving the locations and details of each one, what bait to use, what you can expect to catch, etc. And of course, they don't call it Surf City for nothing:
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| Shark baits waiting for the perfect wave |
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| Hangin' Ten |
I'm beginning to understand how people can come out here and be enamored of the whole Southern California surfing, beach-going, avocado eating, no hassles lifestyle. Last night we watched Annie Hall for the first time in years and the great struggle of whether to live in California versus the New York metro area was played out by Annie and Alvie Singer. I think that California is great for the young single guy or girl to experience for a while but even the people I know who have made this their home still occasionally pine for the energy and frenetic pace of our crazy home base. But the whole California thing is not for us, ahem, more experienced types. Several of the places along the bike path rent surfboards and give lessons and one had a sign advertising that "We'll Have You Standing Up During Your First Lesson!" I had this sudden fantasy of challenging their bravado by taking my first surfing lesson but was dissuaded by the thought of how many knee surgeries I'd need to "stand up" after that!
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| Looking back to town from the end of the pier |
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| Scenes from the pier fishing sub-culture |
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