Hello, readers!

Hello, readers!

I am not currently on the road. Please check back periodically later this year as I have no idea when I'll be traveling! August? September? October? Who knows!

Cheers,
Kelly

Thursday, August 31, 2017

Californian campgrounds are weird


8/4/2017

Well, crossing my fingers was less than helpful. My first glimpse of the outside world this morning yielded a depressing array of grays that somehow did nothing to slow the rapid increase in temperature. Ugh!



I set off with my sights set on California’s Mount Shasta, a magnificent beast of a mountain that surely couldn’t succumb to obscurity due to smoke. As I drove, things seemed pretty grim. If anything, the smoke got thicker!



I eventually arrived at the mountain, my plans of hiking through flower-filled meadows and along peaceful green creeks with the mountain majesty in view quite shattered. I don’t think that the B.C. fires were entirely to blame for the amount of smoke wreathing the mountain, but I had no map of current wildfires so I really have no idea. I suppose it’s irrelevant anyways – all that matters is that I had been foiled in my hiking plans for three days in a row and I was starting to get mad.

Well, at least the nice yellow grass is visible. Shasta there in the background... not so much.

Guess this is the best view I'll get!

I opted to get into the campground so I could roast some marshmallows for s’mores, an endeavor that would surely improve my mood. And that’s when I was abruptly reminded of something that is very strange about California. In other states, campgrounds are for families and outdoors enthusiasts and people on the road. In California, campgrounds are frequently places where people who can’t afford the absurd housing prices live. Most of them are friendly, which is great, but maybe they might be a little odd. I mean, I get pretty weird when I live in my tent for a few weeks, so I can’t blame them for it when they’ve been living in tents for months.

My campsite neighbors were true-blue hippies – peace banners and VW van and all – who had been living there at the Mount Shasta campground for eight months. One of them, Dee, followed me around my campsite while I set up and told me all about how they moved up here to find work but how they hadn’t accounted for pay scaling that occurs when you move out of the city, so they were having a hard time saving money but that’s okay because Shasta is great, man. And then he told me all about the underground party scene in the Bay Area, and how he was a big part of it, but it’s so much easier to have parties out here man because the cops aren’t everywhere. And then he told me all about how much he loves concerts and all the bands he’s gone to see and how California is just so great for music, man, though underground stuff is always the best because it’s so raw, ya know. And then he told me all about all kinds of other things and I nodded noncommittally and kind of hoped that he would just let me eat my marshmallows in peace.

Eventually his sister reminded him that they had a party to get to so he bugged out and I got a bit of quiet for a while. I have to admit to being totally fascinated by my encounter with a real hippie, since I never really got to experience the hippie movement in the 70’s due to not being alive at the time. It was exactly as I expected, which was almost unexpected. It turns out that people still want peace and love and happiness with a little dash of rebellion, and I guess they probably always will. But really, the lifestyle is not for me. Peace and love and happiness is lovely and something I strive for every day, but I am just not good at drifting along with the slow flow of life. Even while at peace, I’m all about screaming motors and open road and reaching the horizon and stretching beyond, going faster and further and longer. In the end, I’m all about pursuit. So I guess I just wouldn’t make a very good hippie.

Anyways, the marshmallows did some to calm my temper, though probably the sugar did nothing to lower my energy to manageable levels. When you get used to hiking ten miles a day every day, suddenly dropping down to nothing makes you a bit irritable. But no worries! Tomorrow, I’ll hit the road again, and I’m determined to find something worth hiking. Until then, Kelly signing out.



Friday, August 25, 2017

Volcanic Vibes


8/3/2017

I woke feeling distinctly uneasy – it’s very odd to be in a hotel room, and even odder to not have Jane nearby. Fortunately, Don at the Mustang Ranch called up at 9:30 AM to tell me that he had already replaced Jane’s starter! I had planned on going over there to help out if needed but a starter’s a fairly simple thing and he had just taken care of it.

He sent his “other guy” – I believe his son? – to pick me up at the motel, which was really nice. We pulled up at the Mustang Ranch and there was Jane, sitting there innocuously in the parking lot like she hadn’t been a major pain in my rear the day prior. Jane is Jane, I guess.

Don and I took the opportunity to chat for another hour or so before it was time to take off again. He warned me that he thought that my starter hadn’t been engaging all the way properly, which had resulted in accelerated wear on the ring gear on the flywheel. For those of you reading who aren’t car people – basically, imagine that the back of the engine has a giant gear on it (this is the flywheel ring gear). The starter is effectively a small, powerful electric motor with a gear attached to it that engages with the big gear on the backside of the engine to turn it until it starts. So, if the starter gear doesn’t fully engage with the ring gear, instead just catching it by a little bit, you get a lot of wear because the teeth aren’t meshing right. And eventually, they won’t mesh at all, so the starter gear will spin without contacting the engine at all. That’s probably what happened to me.

Anyways, Don said that the new starter would probably do me to get home, but that I should really be careful and replace the flywheel ring gear as soon as I could. Even the new starter would make grinding noises every once in a while, indicating that there was a spot on the ring gear that was more worn than the rest. But hey, life goes on, and I now knew the cause of the problem and how to fix it. If I was to encounter the horrible grind again, I knew that I just had to push Jane forward a couple feet until the ring gear turned over to a good spot. Annoying, but livable.

Really can’t thank Don enough for his help in getting Jane and I back on the road and ready for more adventures. The best I could do was thank him for his help profusely, and then leave him alone to do his other work. And so Jane and I regretfully left that lovely shop, soldiering on to the day’s destination: Mount St. Helens!

I was really excited to see St. Helens, actually – I have to admit that even though I’m a geologist, I really haven’t seen that many volcanoes in my life, and I definitely haven’t seen any that have been active in the past few decades. Though this volcano is best known for the May 1980 eruption that blew its top off and caused the largest debris avalanche in modern recorded history, it has seen several smaller-scale eruptions since then and is still active today. Helicopter tours give tourists an exceptional view down into the top of the crater, where they can observe the new lava dome building inside it. And for those of us who can’t afford to go gallivanting about in the sky like that, you can still see a good portion of the interior of the crater through the collapsed wall of the volcano from the visitor center. Most excellent!

Alas, it was not to be. As I made my way south, the roads got hazier and hazier, smoke hanging heavy in the air and smothering the landscape. Upon reaching the visitor center, I found that the volcano – close as it was – was almost completely invisible! All I could distinguish was a bit of snow fringing the top.



Believe it or not, this is actually a picture of Mount St. Helens. Technically. If you strain your eyes real hard you might be able to see the lighter color in the sky where the little bit of snow on the top of the volcano is...
The visitor center exhibits were closed for cleaning, adding to the disappointment. I tried to make the best of things, eventually arriving at the conclusion that I had just visited Mt. St. Helens on a day that probably looked very much like it did a few days after the 1980 eruption. When there’s already ash falling from the sky and smoke blanketing everything, it’s easy to imagine yourself in the aftermath of an eruption.

Of course, it then occurred to me that if there was actually to be an eruption that day, I would have no way of seeing the warning signs and would instead probably just get deafened by the eruption and then subsequently buried in a lahar (a thick slurry-like debris flow of volcanic ash, organic matter, and water), which would be terrible.

So I cleared out of there pretty quick.

Jane and I scooted south, making our way through Portland and on to Salem. Now, someone told me that Portland is always cool and rainy. Well, that is patently untrue. As I passed through it was an absolutely awful 102*F. It was hazy, it was smoky, and the sun seemed hellbent on cooking whatever was in my backseat through that cursed fastback rear glass. I turned the AC on, for once, resulting in a cool frontside and a still-sweltering backside. Not terribly helpful.

I scrapped the idea of camping in a nice cool refreshing Oregonian campground, as it became apparent that the entire state was giving Nevada a run for its money in the temperatures department. My day thus ended in further disappointment with me bedded down in a hotel room. Crossing my fingers for an improvement in the weather tomorrow!

Until then… Kelly signing out.



Thursday, August 24, 2017

Shame


8/2/2017

On every trip, there is a day that’s just destined to not be great. For Jane and I, that was today.

Oh, it started well enough, of course. I woke up, had a nice leisurely hashbrown breakfast, and enjoyed sitting beneath the trees in a complete absence of bugs or humidity or heat. Just perfect.

But eventually, Jane and I had to go somewhere to do something, because I am incapable of just sitting still for too long. So we went back out to Mount Rainier to hike the Reflection Lakes, a trail well-known for its beautiful lakes and wildflowers.

I love driving through these old growth forests - but the pictures are less than awe-inspiring in comparison, I must confess.

Unfortunately, today the wind was not in my favor. Whereas yesterday the skies were a crystal clear, perfect blue, today they were hazy and gray. You could barely even see Mount Rainier. I felt bad for all of the tourists that had arrived today, missing the perfect views.

Bleh.
The haze was accompanied by that now oh-so-familiar smell of burning firewood – yep, the smoke had been blown all the way down from the fires up in Canada. I decided to go on my hike anyways despite the obvious lack of reflections in the Reflection Lakes. People kept telling me it was going to be hot, but I told them I was from Texas and that pretty much took care of that.

Well, it really wasn’t that hot, so that wasn’t the problem with the trail. The problem was the insane amount of bugs. I have never in my life seen so many! At any given point in time there were a dozen flies, a couple horseflies, and a couple mosquitoes orbiting my body like tiny planets around a gigantic sun. I was wearing a bright yellow shirt, which certainly did nothing to help my predicament but did at least help reinforce the metaphor.

The buzzing was driving me completely insane, especially as the flies tended to bounce off my ears for whatever reason. I guess maybe my ears look like flowers. Or maybe flies just really feed off of irritation. Either way, I ended up tying my bandana around my ears solely to keep out the noise of all of the flies. With that irritation gone, the trail suddenly seemed much more pleasant!

I wandered around at a leisurely pace, not really seeing much in the ways of mountain vistas but at least seeing some lovely flowers. And I tell you, if I don’t have malaria after today, I must be immune! Holy cow, the mosquito bites.










But wait, there’s more! Yes, the reason for today’s “not great”-ness had yet to strike. I hopped back in Jane, shooing out a dozen or so mosquitoes and horseflies, and went to turn the key. Instead of the much-anticipated “WUB WUB VROOMMMM” sound of an old grumpy V8 firing to life, I was treated with an interesting “WHIRRRRRR”. Seems that the starter had decided that it was done turning over the engine, and that was going to be that.

I am fairly undaunted by things like this, which happen on occasion. The starter has never done anything to me really, though occasionally it makes some very odd noises, so usually I just employ the “try it again” strategy. If that doesn’t work, you’d be surprised how effective the “kick it until it works” strategy is. So I was kind of perplexed when neither worked.

Well, I carry a giant toolbag with me for a reason, so I got it out and crawled under Jane and had the starter out in a matter of 15 minutes. It’s only two bolts, after all, and the worst part about it is the accumulated grime covering the thing. Careful inspection of the starter and the exposed flywheel showed that neither were missing teeth or had any measurable wear. I spun the starter around a couple times, whacked it against the ground more than a couple of times (in lieu of using my hammer, which was at camp), and then shrugged and stuck it back in. Again, you’d be surprised how often the “advanced caveman” technique works on these cars.

Turning the key again unfortunately yielded no promising noises whatsoever, just the mocking whirr of the starter not engaging with the flywheel. Useless!

Then, I was left with some amount of confusion. I was in a random parking lot quite a ways away from any of the nearest visitor services, with no cell phone service. I considered hiking to the Paradise Visitor Center, which was only a mile and a half away up the mountain back along the trail, but the thought of all of those flies soured me on that idea. Then I considered hitchhiking, but that seemed not likely to work as all of the cars that passed were headed away from the visitor center. So instead I did nothing, which proved fortuitous as a few minutes later a nice group of people (who had seen me messing with the car a half hour earlier and had expressed their well wishes) approached me and offered me a ride up to the visitor center.

Really, you can’t beat human nature. People are just great.

So I took their offer (thanks Carolyn, Walter, and Melanie!) and got a ride up to the visitor center, where I then badgered the rangers into giving me their phone so I could call Don at the Mustang Ranch as well as AAA. I then proceeded to monopolize their phone for an hour, as it is pretty hard to get a hold of anyone without use of the internet these days. I got through to Don pretty quickly, explaining the issue and expressing my regrets that I’d have to be a pain in his ass for two days in a row. He said, “not to worry!” and got to work finding me a new starter. Then I called AAA, which was less successful as the operator had to call around a bunch of different tow companies, eventually reaching the conclusion that my nearest ride was seven hours away. SEVEN! Well, nah.

Fortunately, the rangers had a local tow company on retainer – Eatonville Towing. Conveniently, the Mustang Ranch is also in Eatonville. I gave them a call and they said they’d be right up in an hour, and they’d come get me at the visitor center before going to get Jane. Perfect! My last call was then to the campground owners, to let them know that I wouldn’t be around tonight and not to worry about me but that I’d have to stay in Eatonville near my car. They were very understanding and told me that no matter what, we’d work it out and if I needed a ride to let them know.

I laid around reading a book for an hour, appeasing myself with some ice cream from the Inn. It vaguely occurred to me that I should feel sorrier for myself than I did. But hey, shit happens sometimes. And if Jane was going to kick the starter to the curb, I was damn lucky that she did it right at the top of Mount Rainier with some vintage Mustang experts sitting there right at the bottom of the mountain. The general feeling was, therefore, “Meh”.

Sean (Shawn? Shaun? Who knows) eventually rolled up in his big flatbed, and we went down to Reflection Lakes to get Jane. Blocked traffic in both directions to roll her up onto the flatbed, and I cringed as I saw a woman in one of the stopped cars taking a picture. Avert your eyes, people! My Jane does not belong on flatbeds, strapped down like a caged beast. She does not belong to a nonfunctional state, another broken down ancient piece of the past. She does not belong to disappointment and shame, to failure. This is a car that is the antithesis of all of those things.


And yet, there we were, jostling our way down the mountain, the reflection of her perfect lines in the rearview mirror mocking me. I guess everyone trips up every once in a while.

Sean was kind enough to run me past the campground, where the lovely owners and host had taken the time to repack my cooler with new ice. I threw all of my stuff into my bag (clock’s ticking on the tow truck!), hastily thanked them and promised to be back the next day, and hopped back in the truck. Then it was off to the Mustang Ranch, where we unloaded Jane and abandoned her. It wasn’t truly abandoning her, of course, but it always feels that way. I really do not like to leave her. I think if I had children, I’d be a terrible helicopter mom.

I finally reached my motel for the night and grabbed some dinner, then plopped down on the bed to at least catch up on blog posts. But alas, the internet here is about a third of the speed of that at my lovely perfect campsite, so that idea pretty quickly got scrapped as well. YOU try uploading five pictures for an hour and see how mad YOU get!

So, it’s been a frustrating day. Or it should have been, at least. But I had a good time chatting with Sean about his tow business and dirt bike racing and family and things, and I was really touched to have people helping me out all day when they could have just sat by and let me struggle. And in the end, a starter replacement is nothing major – remember, it took me 15 minutes to remove mine in a parking lot – so I guess it could be a lot worse! And I got some ice cream, which was nice.

Hopefully tomorrow will be a better day. Until then… Kelly signing out.

"Huh."

8/1/2017

I got my butt out of bed (camp) earlier than usual today so I could take Jane for some more pampering in the form of an oil change and brake check. Our destination: the Mustang Ranch of Eatonville, WA, conveniently both highly recommended and close by!

It’s not often that I get the pleasure of stopping at an old hot rod / restoration shop. My favorite thing about them – besides the obvious presence of great cars – is the smell. Shops full of old American cars just always smell great, like a combination of rust, musty vinyl, and old paint with a healthy dose of engine oil and burned hydrocarbons. Divine! Weird, I know.

The Mustang Ranch of Eatonville is no exception. A sleepy little place tucked back out of the main thoroughfare of life, it still nourishes its classic roots. Rows and rows of stripped vintage Mustang parts crowd the shelves, waiting to find new homes in cars given another lease on life. The skeletons of cars long past saving rest in the yard peacefully, waiting to donate just one last thing to another more fortunate car. The old tools of the trade line every wall, each with a purpose today maybe unknown, but essential in decades past. The guy that runs this shop though, he knows. His name is Don.

Don’s working on several vintage Mustangs for customers right now, but he made space in his shop for Jane. I felt a bit bad pulling up, as all of these other cars were beautiful and clean and pristine, and Jane looked a bit ragged. Should have made her presentable for company! Oops.

Don pulled her into the bay – notably without a single attempted stall or any other silly business – and we put Jane up on the lift to inspect her leaky brake line. A cursory check of the offending brake yesterday showed it a bit wet, and there was some brake fluid loss in the master cylinder, so I assumed that that line was just leaking a bit.

Well, an inspection of the line showed it bone dry, with the fluid coming from inside the drum brake. Pulling the drum showed that the inside of the brake was also bone dry. And that’s when he said it. My favorite phrase, heard out of the mouth of every mechanic to ever look at Jane: “Huh.” The simple statement of puzzlement uttered when something just does not make sense.

I laughed pretty hard. This is Calamity Jane at her finest – always the wild card, and probably for no reason other than to be ornery. It’s just so typical that I kind of expected it in the back of my mind anyways.

Don said, “Well, I don’t quite know what I’m supposed to fix here,” and I laughed harder.

Once I had finished giggling enough to be of some use, we traced the lines the whole length of the car and found nothing amiss. So the consensus was to just top off the brake fluid and turn a blind eye. Sometimes these things just happen. Especially when Jane’s involved.

He moved on to the oil change then, kindly listening to me prattle on about silly things Jane has done to me, places we’ve been and things we’ve seen. It’s been a while since I last had someone around who knows what I’m talking about when I have cars on the brain. I ended up hanging out bothering him for a couple of hours, just shooting the breeze and checking out his cars and assorted car parts.

We put Jane on the lift to check out her undercarriage thoroughly. As expected, everything's dirty and everything leaks! All is well.


Really liked their old tow truck.
Eventually I did recognize that he had to get on with his day, so Jane and I took off for Mount Rainier, fresh and ready to rock and roll! It was a beautiful, perfect day – nothing but blue skies and nice light breezes and warm sun. Exactly right for a nice long hike.

Not really sure what was going on with this family of raccoons in the road...



I drove up to Paradise (yes, it’s really called that) and made my way onto the Skyline Trail, a hike popular for its stunning mountain views and incredible wildflowers. And let me tell you, that trail did not disappoint. Every turn I made brought new amazing sights into view - roaring waterfalls far off in the distance, massive cracking blue sheets of ice, flowers of every possible color, and a multitude of silly marmots. I really do have a soft spot for those little guys.


Well, I can confirm that he wasn't exaggerating. 










Believe that is Mount Adams in the background there. 


Check out these awesome crevasses! They look like extensional fractures (think stretch marks from growth, but in a rock) but may just be erosional, not sure.

Obligatory Kelly shot.


Really liked this shot with this guy. Just a reminder of how small we are in this world of ours. 





Conduits of life.




I took the Golden Gate Trail down the slope back to Paradise, seeing more fields of flowers and channeled meltwater on the way. Then I collected Jane and we coasted down the mountain back to the peace and quiet of our campsite. This place is just wonderful.




Until tomorrow... Kelly signing out.