Life & Island Times: Detour Day 12
May 2001
Detour Version 1.0
Day 12
“Las Vegas was ruined when the corporations
took over from the mafia. Everything’s now too
expensive. They’re overwhelmed by the drug trade
and gang related crime and shootings,”
-ALA MAR’s resident manager
(I share his feelings for Vegas’s early 70s version)
A flight of pelicans headed south to LA; we bikers are headed north to Monterey
Rope tow started the Fatboy (after a several day clickety-clickety hiatus) in the AM as there was no sun (fog) to warm the primary case oil. One yank was enough. Yahoo. Folks at the motel gathered to observe us, including several Modesto CA bikers who hadn’t seen this before. These 30-somethings hadn’t spent substantial portions of their lives kick-starting Panhead and Knucklehead powered choppers. Pop. Pop. Pow!! Shinbone smack!
Skipped breakfast to maximize time on the Pacific Coast Highway. Priorities we got.
Observation #9: We knew we were in CA, when over the course of the past two days we saw top-down convertibles with shiny blonde haired (natural of course) women insouciantly piloting them in various states of undress more notable for their fleshiness. Now, mind you, they weren’t porcine nor obese, but they obviously displayed themselves to be noticed. One at the FISHOUSE wore a low-cut top. both fore and aft, accentuated with slits up both sides of her dress along with her stiletto heels. Someone’s Dixie Chicken, I thought.
Dude-ititude lessons commenced upon entering CA. We heard whenever the speaker thought it possible in multiple modes, moods and parts of speech as opportunities presented themselves words from surfer culture, pyscho babble du jour, legalisms, scientisms, rap, pop and hip hop music mixed with current techno fad speak.
Stayed at the Navy Postgraduate School Lodge on Monterey. Amenities overflowed — real cloth-towel bathmats, functioning shower head, and voicemail. Dinner at a long ago favorite on Monterey’s Fisherman’s Wharf not up to snuff. Things change.
Coast to Coast Smells of the Road
clover hay dirt
freshly mowed grass
overheated radiators smoking breaks
car oil diesel gasoline
tar melting snow lavender
electrical storms (scary) pepper
pine tree oil wild sage & thyme
falling snow wildflowers across the SW USA
orange groves north of LA peach tree groves in NW Colorado
cherry tree groves in northern California
ocean spray eucalyptus trees
mint lilac gardenias strawberries
smoke smell from last year’s Sierra fires
cultivated fields of coriander north of LA
roadkill
donkey, cattle, pig, chicken stock pens
anhydrous ammonia
Day 12 miscellany and counts:
Daily Windshield Bug Smash Bingo Game winners: no players
Query count as of the end of Day 11:
Where’re you going? – 14
What’s that? (Steve’s Valkyrie) – 5
Damsels in distress? – 6
Copyright © 2001 and 2023 From My Aisle Seat
www.vicsocotra.com
Life & Island Times: Fleurs Printanières Dans l’Empire
Fleurs Printanières Dans l’Empire
We were sitting out in W’s garden with happy hour drink in hand as the work week’s final sunset approached amongst some very early blooming vines and flowers. See sampling above!
-Marlow
Copyright 2023 My Aisle Seat
www.vicsocotra.com
Life & Island Times: Detour, Day 11
May 2001
Detour Version 1.0
Day 11
“The Seed Collector of Oatman”
Based upon a dirt biker’s advice during a Day 10 gas stop in Flagstaff, we continued from Kingman via Oatman en route Needles California as a prestage to crossing the Mojave desert on I40. We left Kingman at 0700 without breakfast as we wanted the Mojave done before midday.
Our engine’s early morning rhythmic thrum-thrum-thrum’s were sounding their best of the trip almost as if the two motors had found a cross air, mechanical synchronicity. West of Kingman, we noticed one and then a second gent stooped over at the roadside amongst some wildflowers, each with a large white plastic bucket, engaged in some unknown activity. Steve and I slowed down, stopped, consulted and returned to gent #2 to enquire.
He was gathering wild yellow marigold seed heads. He resold them to the state DOTs of CA and AZ, utility and mining companies.
He was 5’ 7”; possessed a full head of moderate length, light brown, sun bleached hair; bronzed skin, spry; wiry; clear pale blue eyes; wore clean Bermuda shorts, no cap, knee and elbow pads, fingerless gloves stained with yellow powder; an easy talker, even to two black clad strange figures. He earned $7/lb., averaging $11-12/hour, all cash, five-hour days, 10 months per year doing all of his picking in the early AM hours. Better than working at Kmart, Walmart and Home Depot, the “killers of 20th century American civilianization as we know and treasure it.” Big Boxed Destroyers of Worlds.
State and Federal governments require despoiled lands (mines, stripped forested area, power lines, berms along improved/widened roads) be returned to their natural states using indigenous plants. No big seed or plant companies serviced this supply demand need. AZ and CA are oblivious to the fact that desert annual wildflowers self-seed. They require annual reseeding of reclaimed areas (probably coming to the east of the Mississippi real soon). In fact, these western state DOTs regularly water these desert roadside areas to encourage flower growth. After the flowers go to seed but well after the Seedman and his fellow collectors pick the berms clean, state road crews mow down the spent plants. Ergo, the state does all the hard work here, and our Seedman harvests the bounty.
Seedman first visited the Oatman area twenty plus years ago from Oregon. He had a great job with that state’s DOT, loved his small Oregon town of residence and surrounding rural area, but he fell head over heels in love with the desert and knew he had to live there. Returned home. Sold everything. Immigrated. Bought a trailer and a lot. Lot had a natural spring with a decent seasonal 4-5 gallon/minute flow rate. His steady flow needs were one gallon/minute with storage tanks. For regular dependable water needs, wells thereabouts were on the order of 1200 feet deep; at $20/foot drilling cost; a well was a $25K per hole plus pumping, plumbing. filtering and storage equipment costs plus permits for a grand cost of $30-35K.
Upon arrival he found a job with the AZ state DOT as a mechanic — decent pay, and benefits too, since no one wanted postings out there. He “reduced his work BS factor” to near zero. Retired with pension to do nothing but seed harvesting, grow his own food, hike, and write. He was overwhelmingly full of joy and drug-free mellow.
Intends to take Social Security at 62: “Why wait, since one could die before 67 and not get any of the dough and good times at 63, 64 and so one.” Gave me great pause to consider such a course for myself.
He lives in a sparsely populated desert community he quietly cherishes. Loves desert gardening, truly at peace.
In response to my comment that I’d never seen a desert so full of wildflower blooms, he said that the year’s rain and snow falls were once in a decade events. The last four months had seen an entire average year’s moisture delivery. Last time for this type of desert bloom was 94 or 95.
Derived Seedman Wisdom:
· Just as nature takes advantage, so should man.
· Strike while Social Security iron is hot. Take money, commence living Life Part 3.0. TEMPUS FUGIT.
Later after we parted, Steve and I believed we saw Seedman’s trailer off to the north of the old road. In contrast to its surroundings, it sat in a green field with multiple trees and bushes.
The mother road to Oatman was superb, full of ups-n-downs, with many technically demanding switchbacks and off-camber, tight back-n-forths. We’re getting proficient at riding as well as we do more of these demanding road sections. Inside and east of Oatman there were a slew of feral donkeys in the road — the remnants of the local mining work force long since unneeded after the local mines metals played out. These portly creatures are treated and fed like pets by the locals and tourists alike. One jackass tried to merge with us around a curve. Horn honking and steering at his ass did the trick.
Brunch at a locally owned Needles CA diner – the Hungry Bear. This small place is the hometown of the PEANUTS comic strip character Snoopy’s pork pie hat wearing, brother Joe. IIRC, Joe talked to cacti and didn’t care much for cities.
After the Mojave desert. We skirted around to the north of LA. We did a little of the Angeles County forest roads before reaching a ROAD CLOSED sign. They were still closed for post winter season cleaning. Backtracking to grinding our teeth on high speed multi-lane west coast gantlet roads (CA14 and I5). As an unexpected off-menu treat we rode with and through a dust devil. Lots of grit in our mouths and ping-ping-ping from all sides y th debris. Hack tuie!!
Ran into an afternoon fog on the Pacific Coast Highway and CA 101 en route Santa Barbara on the coast. We’ve now completed our weather condition portfolio checklist as hurricane and tornadic winds were just a matter of scale not speed or force during the previous days. We’ll likely see serious fog tomorrow AM.
Stayed at Steve’s lodging pick — the ALA MAR motel across from the Santa Barbara bay beach. One night cost more than the last five nights combined. Based on the recently relocated Las Vegas resident manager’s recommendation, we dined down the street at the FISHOUSE. Most excellent.
Day 11 miscellany and counts:
Daily Windshield Bug Smash Bingo Game winners: Yellow
Query count as of the end of Day 11:
Where’re you going? – 13
What’s that? (Steve’s Valkyrie) – 5
Damsels in distress? – 5
Select Photos From Day 11
Copyright © 2001 and 2023 From My Aisle Seat
www.vicsocotra.com
Life & Island Times: Detour Day 10
May 2001
Detour Version 1.0
Day 10
“Whoa”
-English translations of German and French tourists’ reactions to the Grand Canyon
Trip’s third and final breakfast waitress at Mike & Rhonda’s won the roadtrip’s snappy comeback award to Steve’s daily waitress/server baiting. We’ll really miss THE PLACE, the food and its folks.
We entered the Grand Canyon via the less travelled eastern entrance (AZ 64). Park was virtually ours. No lines. No waiting, kids, ugly Yanks, smog or haze. Colors changed endlessly as sun angles shifted and winds rose and died off.
Walked in and had our table pick for a park lunch at an empty Yavapai restaurant! Showed Steve the two park lodges for a potential future spousal visit (Bright Angel and El Tovar).
Moonlit ride to Kingman on an empty US 66. Breathtaking. Eerily still. Saw a pickup truck every 10 miles or so. A single brave coyote scampered across in front of us. Moon photo taken at 100 MPH. We speed-checked the full wide open throttled bikes on US 66: mine — 117; Steve’s — 132.
My pick of night’s motel, based solely on its cool sign, was delightful. Had a pile of gold-painted, smooth four-inch, river rocks outside the office door. Run by a Filipina. Claimed the sign was in a National Geographic photo spread. She ran a clean and modest 1960s era motel. I hadn’t seen good luck and fortune talismans (her gold spray painted rockpile), since I was in the Orient during the 1970s. Room price was right — $29 for two, tax included. Dinner at an old timey drive-in across US 66 from the motel.
Day 10 miscellany and counts:
Daily Windshield Bug Smash Bingo Game winners: Yellow
Query count as of the end of Day 10:
Where’re you going? – 12
What’s that? (Steve’s Valkyrie) – 4
Damsels in distress? – 5
Select Photos From Day 10
Day 10 postscript; I wish everyone could experience powering about on an American made, large-engined motorcycle on a sunny afternoon. Just to experience the way exhaust and mechanical noises can be felt in your body, the sound itself a physical thing, waves and vibrations rolling down your spine and legs — coursing through your brain. Even if you’re stuck in a commuter-traffic-jammed car at night under the pouring rain, you’ll hear a bike blast past you and start an earnest uncontrolled looking for that noise, hoping to hear it come again through the foggy mist. Gives you chills.
Copyright © 2001 and 2023 From My Aisle Seat
www.vicsocotra.com
Detour Version 1.0 Day 9
Gentle Readers, Marlow contributes a recollection of an America we knew in a place now ensnarled in new turmoil. It seems appropriate this morning to contrast with other events. Some here in the Writer’s Section had experience with air defense technical issues long ago. So the story of mysterious objects being blasted in the sky- now described as not having balloons for suspension and octagonal in shape- is interesting. We have a general feeling that the system is no longer reacting to established practice and has assumed a new posture with some unidentified criteria.
– Vic
Installment #12
Director John Ford & actor John Wayne in Monument Valley
Early today I handed to our proprietor about 15 postcards acquired in various out of the way Detour 1.0 places to mail out to the folks back east. He immediately began carefully looking them over and reading my personal journal notes on their backs in my presence. So, what the hell, I gave him a guided picture postcard tour, a travelogue if you will, of the journey thus far. His shoeless one joined him. They sat on stools behind the counter, their little legs dangling above the fraying carpet below, raptly listening to me as I did my best imitation of a JCS tank briefer. If I only had a power point slide show, I might have secured a nighttime school auditorium booking or two locally, even scored a room #22 discount at the WWM.
After solar warming my primary case oil, the bike’s 80 cubic inch motor fired on the first try after breakfast at The Place. We went north and did Monument Valley along its bisecting road. We spent all day there going up, down, right, left to all points on the compass rose. We were riding among the backdrops of every famous, classic American western movie I ever loved. I heard the Duke and director John Ford talking with shots of whiskey in hand. An old school Disney E-ticket ride for these two riders’ souls.
In the northern reaches of the Valley, across the Utah border, we passed a sign with an arrow pointing to the left: “Valley of the Gods.” We stopped, u-turned, and took the dangling tasty bait. After six miles of narrow, rutted, squishy dust riding, we began discovering its eye-catching scenery. A special road-trip karmic chi engulfed us.
Lesson learned #7: if you come to a fork in the road, take it.
In the barren beauty of this outer space way station, we still met people. At a roadside Navajo jewelry stand, there were two German tourists on a 10-day motorcycle holiday. His bike was flown over via their employer, Lufthansa. At an early AM gas stop, we met a 40ish married couple recently transplanted from Florida to Scottsdale Arizona. He’s a fellow Fatboy owner and asked many questions about my and Steve’s bikes and our trip.
Old Biker’s Roadtrip Tip #6: Chrome may get you noticed, but it won’t get you home.
Dinner at a Chinese place next to last night’s laundromat. It purveyed an excellent $8.95 buffet with bottomless drink included. Many meat-like products, desserts, salads, fish, and shellfish. We gorged leisurely while reviewing the day’s sights, sounds, smells and people.
Observation #8: The trouble with Moo Shu Pork is too much Moo and too little Shu.
After a long but invigorating 440-mile day and superb meal, while sitting astride the Fatboy, in the restaurant parking lot before heading back to WWM, I slowly lost my grip and watched the bike lean over on its left floorboard on the pavement. With Steve’s help and no cursing on my part, we righted the bike.
Lesson (Re)Learned #7: Beware of fatigue. It stealthily builds up and bites you when you least suspect it.
Day 9 miscellany and counts:
Daily Windshield Bug Smash Bingo Game winners: Yellow
Query count as of the end of Day 9:
Where’re you going? – 11
What’s that? (Steve’s Valkyrie) – 4
Damsels in distress? – 5
Select Photos From Day 9
(most of these were shot while our bikes were in motion)
Copyright © 2001 and 2023 From My Aisle Seat
www.vicsocotra.com
Life & Island Times: Detour Version 1.0 Day 8
Editor’s Note: There is a confluence of interesting events today- a sporting event seemingly cast larger than those of the past, Add some uncertainty about the hemispheric air defense system and this morning has a distinct flush of energy. It is appropriate to channel some of it through Marlow’s view of the American Road.
Installment #11
– Vic
After my bike wouldn’t start again, I parked it with the primary drive facing the sun to warm up the engine oil and see if the ensuing reduced resistance would allow the engine to turn over. We left to search for and successfully find in east Flagstaff our breakfast diner place:
Good and plentiful food, friendly service, cheap eats. What was remarkable was the side to a $2.95 plate of eggs and toast that came — an approximate 1.5 to 2 pound serving of hash browns made out of mashed taters. Flagstaff was now firmly in the lead as this trip’s bargain.
Rolling out of our newly designated breakfast command center, we returned to the WWM to discover the Fatboy underwent a change of heart and now started with some minor resistance. This occurred only after I had threatened and then called the local Harley store to haul it in shame for a premature oil change and electrical check. Perhaps it was the cold early AM weather (28 degrees F) or the altitude or the early stages of high plains allergies. Who knew? Pre-Detour, its battery and electrics checked out A-OK.
The dealership’s tow-bed truck showed up as the bike sputtered to life on its 10th try. Followed him back to the shop. What a stealership! 10 miles west of Flagstaff. Prices on used and new bikes ranged between $4-6K over MSRP with extra chrome with many models just bone stock in the performance area. Service department was great. As electrics checked out 4.0; so, nothing could be done. I was happy they didn’t throw their parts and my money at an unknown problem. My oil change was cheaper than Steve’s, which he had done at the nearby Honda dealership while I waited for the mechs to pressure wash a lot of serious road crud off the bike for free.
Since our new Flagstaff buds said things up north in Monument Valley and the Grand Canyon would warm up later in the week, we rode south into the lower altitudes and warmer climes of Sedona-Verde Valley-Jerome-Prescott along AZ route 84 Alt.
Whoa . . .
Sedona had some major league red rock geological things happening. Lunch at Rosebuds sitting next to wall-to-wall 12×12 foot plate glass windows and achieved a nice state of mellow coming from the shifting colors and hues of the rock faces (red rock TV perhaps). Could have stayed there all day as they had several fine red wines from Napa, but the road called.
Before the mountain climb to Jerome, we passed through Cottonwood, u-turned and retraced our steps to help a fellow rider in seeming distress — a 68-year-old recent transplant from Massachusetts. Got conked real good in his novelty helmet by some road debris, loved his new yellow, 650 cc single cylinder thumper bike, and got it cheap from someone who was “scared of its power.” Cleaned him up, checked his reflexes, and we were on our separate ways.
The climb up to Jerome was through a great set of switchbacks and off camber turns, climbing over 4400 feet over 8-10 road miles. It’s an old mining town with a commanding view of the Verde Valley and Sedona in the distance. The venerable Hotel Jerome sat even with the mountain’s pinnacle.
On to Prescott. Had planned to superslab it from there back home. Decided to repeat the drive back north:
Roadtrip Tip #5: Knowingly break your own non-safety rules when your fun meter can be pegged. Repeating great riding roads is A-OK.
Before we turned around to head back to Flagstaff, we zig zagged hard to avoid a large cardboard box flying off a flatbed truck that was followed by series of spinning metal plates airlifted off in our general direction.
Lesson (Re)Learned #5. Don’t follow trucks even in slow traffic moving cities too close with gear adrift or uncaged animals. Give ‘em space or pass ‘em.
We decided to stay one more night at the WWM. We chose a Hitchcock nickname for it — the Bates Motel. Our plump middle-aged proprietress, Rita, remained shoeless for our entire stay. Our room’s décor showed signs of being forcible entered by battering ram wielding police, the ceiling around the a/c unit was crumbling, and no lightbulbs among the four generously supplied was over 40 watts.
Steve’s wife called daily to be greeted by Rita:
“Whispering Winds Hotel. Waddya want? (gruffness intentional)
Room phones had no voicemail, so she’d relay to our callers if we were there by looking out the office window to see if our bikes were there. Often, we were not, so they were instructed to call back later. CLICK.
We did, however, have a fresh new paper bathmat provided daily.
Did our first load of trip laundry at the most well decorated laundromat I’ve ever seen before or since. Lots of frontier tools, farm implements, flags, vintage maps, Arizona political memorabilia, folk art — all “bolted” to the walls. We were the only non-ESL clients that evening. We crashed afterwards without eating dinner.
Day 8 miscellany and counts:
Daily Windshield Bug Smash Bingo Game winners: Yellow in a walkover — butterflies.
Query count as of the end of Day 8:
Where’re you going? – 9
What’s that? (Steve’s Valkyrie) – 3
Damsels in distress? – 5
Copyright © 2001 and 2023 From My Aisle Seat
www.vicsocotra.com
Life & Island Times: Detour Version 1.0 (Day 7)
Editor’s Note: Morning! If this is your first venture into Marlow’s American Road, please join him this morning in a plunge into the American Southwest. This adventure was a couple decades ago. It reflects the change in our lives with drama.
– Vic
My bike, it no start. Damn. Damn. Triple Damn. Battery was barely 2 ½ years old. Push starting was the initial departure option of choice. Steve and Rich, the pushers, me the steering and cursing pushee after two unsuccessful tries. With Rich and Steve wheezing like 19th century sanitarium tuberculosis patients in the 7300 foot plus altitude hills, we moved onto towed starts using a borrowed rope from Rich. Did I mention it had begun lightly snowing? Or that we were on loose gravel and dirt roads? Several towing attempts provided eye opening and unhelpful noise — telltale signs (weak putts, skidding tires) of the engine’s and tire’s unhappiness about turning over on a dusty gravel surface. It was like a big fat calf roping contest with my bike yanking Steve’s this way and that way.
At this juncture, Rich suggested moving to a big hill. Ah just love me some escalation. Along the way there, we tried 2x’s with no joy. At the top of this long downhill. They pushed me with the Fatboy’s velocity increasing measurably past 18 MPH with the enhancement of a fine rainy drizzle. On this the 8th try, it fired up and stayed that way. Snowfall started. May!?!?!?!? Nevermind — it’s the Rockies at 7300+ feet in early May. Rich and Joyce departed for work. Steve and I packed up our bikes and departed. Rich has presciently offered up his rope. We accepted.
We didn’t check the Beaudry’s satellite dish connected TV for a weather forecast, since Rich assured us that this was mountainside snow effect snow or some other official sounding, weather-guesser term. Westward ho!
-do do do do, do do do do – Twilight Zone terror, confusion, oddities, discomfort theme music
(danger, danger, danger)
-do do do do, do do do do – Twilight Zone terror, confusion, oddities, discomfort theme music
(danger, danger, danger)
We stopped ASAP for gas. We were much colder and wetter. We put on all available wet and cold weather gear we had. The snowfall rate increased. Visibility 1000 yards +/- 500. Five miles later we slowed down to under 50 with the snowfall rate again increasing. We couldn’t see squat. Windshields iced up less than two minutes after hand scraping an eye window hole. Ice caked up on my plastic bag covered gloves borrowed from Steve. Ice build-up on my boots and raingear achieved half an inch in less than 15 minutes.
Lesson Learned #6 after twice breaking it off: ice coatings provide insulation.
I took the lead twenty miles from Durango as Steve had led for about an hour. We might be staying the night if we couldn’t exit this crap. A normally 30-minute-long segment to Durango was tripling in time. Not much scenery could be seen. Just snow, ice and three adolescent elk on the left roadside, skittishly contemplating a crossing. Madly honked my after-market horn klaxon to dissuade them (it worked) as I pointed them out to Steve (He was unsure whether he saw them!!) Durango arrival after several clutch in rolling conk-outs. Uh oh. Boots fully and dangerously ice-bath soaked. Plastic bagged sodden gloves worthless.
Stopped at the Honda motorcycle dealership. Left the Fatboy outside idling — no more push or rope tow starts for us today. We warmed up, dried off and began defrosting. Once our snow frosted coatings had melted. Dealership staff approached and said we looked like lone cowboy ghost storm riders. All of them including their mechs turned to — getting us weather reports, warm fluids, and weather avoidance alt route ideas. We’d have to backtrack and (wait for it) go south to Shiprock, New Mexico.
Either that across several narrow mountain passes or remain in Colorado for a four-day snow blow. We located deep in the back-room storage area some decent snowmobile GORE-TEX gloves and yellow plastic shoe and boot covers. Made the purchases. Put on my dry short work boots and stylish shoe covers. Great dealership staff. Will write thank-you letter to corporate.
After a 60-minute stop, we departed. Our new route’s pass traversals meant huge increases in snowfall rates that quickly decreased as their peaks passed into our rear-view mirrors. “This is only temporary” became our silent mantra. Sixty minutes and fifty miles south, we entered the Reservation’s plains with the snow abating. We pulled off at a local burger joint to warm up, rest and eat.
Roadtrip Tip #3: Never ignorantly violate your ride rules. Check The Weather Channel (TWC) reports.
Roadtrip Tip #4: GORE-TEX is good.
Our subsequent Day 7 ride through the Navajo and Hopi Res’s in NM and AZ revealed big positive differences from what was observed during a similar trip in the late 70s during a change of duty station out west from the Florida Keys. No more grinding poverty stigmata of junker cars, dive bars, public drunkenness, and homelessness. Much reduced numbers of “Indian Trading Posts” selling imported crap from Taiwan; real Native craft stores; better homes, clothes, cars and trucks, decent Res bus systems; better Res restaurants, job opportunities, hotels etc; most if not all businesses were Res owned; first rate handmade Native jewelry sold at road side stands.
Likely reason for change: Res casino cash flow; integrated tribal biz development plans and broader, deeper and wider social service delivery systems. Improvements still ongoing.
On some Res’s, people receive $20K per year checks before they earn a dime.
Next, we rode through Monument Valley under slate grey skies and were pounded by two hailstorms. Welcome to Arizona. Whoa.
We proceeded to Flagstaff at 7800 feet above sea level. It was dark night and cold as hell since the weather had slowed us down quite a bit. It was Steve’s turn to pick out our lodgings. He chose well — just past some railroad tracks — the Whispering Winds Motel. Proudly proclaiming itself “American Owned,” WWM offered “sanitized for our protection” porcelain equipped bathrooms and paper bath mat equipped tubs at $33/night tax included. They were furnished with well worn furniture from the 1950s. We were rocked to sleep by the slow rumbling 4-5 trains per hour rate. Cheap. A notch above scuzz. Just the way we liked them.
Asked our hosts for non-chain and non-fast-food dining options. Totally stumped them. She wasn’t wearing any shoes; his looks were reminiscent of Strother Martin.
Ate at Wild Bill’s Tavern. Good steaks. We crash.
Day 7 miscellany and counts:
Daily Windshield Bug Smash Bingo Game winners: called on account of Al Gore’s upside-down hockey-sticked climate change.
Query count as of the end of Day 7:
Where’re you going? – 8
What’s that? (Steve’s Valkyrie) – 3
Damsels in distress? – 5 (6 if you count us dudes as being in distress on Day 7)
Select photos from Day 7
Copyright © 2001 and 2023 From My Aisle Seat
www.vicsocotra.com
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Life & Island Times: Detour Version 1.0 Day 6
After a great breakfast at Harry’s Roadhouse — chili’d up burrito and a lemon buttered poppy seed Belgian waffle with raspberries and blackberries on top — we visited one last aunt on our way to Pagosa Springs Colorado via Taos New Mexico. She was a fountain of info, life, and family stories as she fed us toast, juice, and homemade salsa which she had prepared the night before for an after-funeral meal she would attend later that morning. We also met her son who lives just down the street.
We took the old two-lane High Road to Taos. Superb: multiple villages, climates, valleys, vistas, and sacred places. One village, Las Truchas, was reminiscent of a Swiss or Austrian alpine settlement with its architecture, vegetation, and big sky. A pleasant surprise here in northern New Mexico.
In Taos, on the recommendation of a local Harley rider at our Taos gas station stop, we lunched at a local diner. Great enchiladas and killer sopapillas!
To the north of Taos on US-64, we stopped at and crossed on foot the gorge and bridge across the Rio Grande. Second highest bridge on the US highway system — 600 feet above the gorge floor.
Our ride to and through southern Colorado was bee-oooo-ti-ful.
Before entering Colorado, we pulled off at a heavily snowed scenic spot for photos. What we found was a plump German female tourist’s rental car, stuck on top of a two-foot tall snow bank. From what we observed, it looked like road clearing crews used these pull offs to plow snow into from both directions, leaving large dirty mounds to melt throughout the spring.
In this instance, the mound had shrunk to a little over two feet with a six-inch base of rock hard ice upon which her car teetered. Trapped for over four hours, she claimed, which earned her a sizeable band of would-be rescuers. An old rusty pickup truck was present. Another audience member offered up an old pair of jumper cables as a tow rope. Several attempts proved unsuccessful with the cheesy cables slipping off the stuck rental car’s bumper.
Along with several slightly built 60ish and 70ish helpers, Steve and I put our shoulders to use after securely looping the cables to the stuck car’s front drive axle. Successful without expletives or hernias. Much whooping and high fiving ensued to cover up the spreading shortnesses of breath. The truck driver was a retired “educator” from Santa Fe. Upon introducing ourselves and her recognizing Steve’s last name, she admitted that she knew Steve’s aunt and grandmother, a NM education legend who had had a great deal of influence on her and his aunt’s careers almost 40 years ago. Damn small world, eh?
Pagosa Springs: small, quaint, an on-the-rise tourist town. Big game hunting, trophy quality fishing, and sitting in dank smelling hot springs are the foundations. Once just the quiet preserves of locals from New Mexico. Now being transformed by high-dollar’d folks from Texas and Oklahoma — the Bass brothers from Texas have a $20 million estate there. It’s now being morphed by $500K McMansions and manufactured $50K double wide trailers.
Patchwork quilt of zoning laws in evidence mitigated by the one acre lots’ minimum size. Everyone has a great view regardless of net worth. The west is certainly a land of equal opportunity. If you’re willing to live with its eccentricities.
Cousins to the Sena family, Joyce and Rich Beaudry, were our hosts. Retirees from New Mexico. He served 30+ years as a Fish and Wildlife Law Officer with stories aplenty about the rich, famous, Hollywood and LA pro sports types he dealt with and some he befriended. He had many tales of law officer encounters with drunken armed hunters of danger he faced. They still had their hands busy with local housing fishing license inspector and hunting and fishing technique pamphlets author (him) and property manager (her). But best of all were the products of their divine wild mushroom gathering that they shared with us along with a home-cooked meal sourced in part from their own garden — along with friendly conversation, a roof over our heads and a rack, these are the best gifts a road tripper can receive.
Day 6 Miscellany and counts:
Daily Windshield Bug Smash Bingo Game winners: white.
Query count as of the end of Day 6:
Where’re you going? – 7
What’s that? (Steve’s Valkyrie) – 3
Damsels in distress? – 5
Select photos from Day 6
Life & Island Times: Detour Version 1.0 Day 5
Easy riding trip along the T2 (Turquoise Trail), up Sandia (Spanish for watermelon since it looks reddish with dark seed spots) Ridge for photos and back to Santa Fe via other great roads and scenes. The Ridge ride was full of challenging twistiness, switchbacks, no traffic to a 10,700 foot vista. A Steel Forest of communications antennas. Limber pines and lichens are the sole things that can survive up there. Along the way desert wildflowers were a blooming riot among the infrequent cacti. I’m struck by the various shades of green in the brush out here. The light greens reminded me of the aquas I’d only seen previously in the tropical waters of the Caribbean, the Med, and the Pacific.
At least twice during Day 4 and 5 riding, Steve asked me “how do you like my state? (His emphasis not mine.) It’s evident he’s come to love this place as a childhood home that his parents State Department employment provided vagabond traveler upbringing and childhood doesn’t seem to square with. Maybe he’s seeing this with his real inner eyes, those of his ancestors, whose blood he shares and whose presence he may keenly feel.
Roots ain’t available at the various, servant-plentiful, party and workload full, State Department postings in Asia, the Middle East, South America and the beltway. They’re found in surviving extended family members and the written and oral histories and tales over the centuries of Southwest Territory, Kingdom of Mexico, the initial Spaniard arrival, colonization, and frontier life.
Met Steve’s last surviving uncle, Gilbert or as everyone else calls him, Gilly. A WW II navigator/bombardier/pilot in B17s, B24s, B25s, which meant he and his crew flew many more missions than required. He and his entire original crew survived unscathed all these missions. They loved and trusted him from the plaques and keepsakes on his house’s walls and bookshelves. Not displayed was the fact that he rose to the rank of General in the New Mexico Air National Guard.
Now a bedridden, speech impaired, 1998 stroke survivor, he can still speak with prompting. Fully alert and oriented to his surroundings. His airframe is FUBAR but he’s still Fully Combat Ready. He gets around with the assistance of a long-term care insurance provided, care-giving RN — a goateed, custom Harley Shovelhead riding, father of two — making Gilly’s wife’s life bearable and Gilly’s dignified, honorable, graceful, loving and blessed.
We visited Steve’s parents’ graves — somber and meaningful as this was his first visit since his dad Ray’s early 2000 passing.
Met Alice, surviving wife of another Sena brother. One smart tough businesswoman. Watched her charm a local customer buying fiesta dresses. Saw her deal with a silk covered steel fist a begging Chamber of Commerce female type looking for freebies at Alice’s expense. A true brain of her generation who achieved much through a life of hard work. Created and still owns the school bus system for Santa Fe. Her success came at a price. One son died in a motorcycle accident after some long-term illicit substance abuse. She trotted out her usual story that she’ll retire later this year after the end of the upcoming tourist season. She’ll likely die in that store or on her way into work one morning in her late 90s. She loves the hunt too much to give it up for a life of indolence and visiting grandchildren.
Drinks & Dinner with Debbie
Leo, his construction business acquaintance and mentoree, Debbie and Leo’s wife, Barbi, had been having a biweekly cocktail hour (two double olive very dry martinis each) for the past six months to unwind and trade construction stories and talk about their sons. Steve’s and my presence was accommodated by having us prepare and serve deli counter prepared entrees plus a large salad Steve ginned up.
Before supper. Steve and I got an advanced lesson in Leo’s much ballyhooed (by Barbi) culinary skill set. His cheffing consisted of construction site foreman mode issuing Steve, Debbie and me encouragement and observations after eliciting from our unsuspecting mouths words that volunteered ourselves for certain dinner preparation duties. Barbi was at her monthly quilting meeting.
Debbie was a 54-year-old, independent, free speaking, three-year divorcee with two boys in college. An avid and engaging outdoorsperson (Lord forgive me for the foregoing PC neologism but it was freely used during the meal). After her divorce, she became a General Contractor (GC) on her own and supervised Habitat for Humanity (H2) building projects for the local working poor. Both Leo and she have issues with the process of H2 owner selection and volunteer hours monitoring. She, less so than Leo, since she’s new to this, has seen less chiseling. She’s currently the GC for a custom, million-dollar home. Used the term “self-image” way too many times which triggered my new age psycho-babble alert klaxon “whoop whoop whoop . . . .”
We boys were well down the path with paper plates and plastic silverware settings placed on the counter with kitchen stools arranged for seating. The prospect of eating dinner with three engaging dudes proved too much for Debbie. So, she set the table with cloth napkins and made us replace the paper plates and plasticware with stoneware and silver utensils. Leo intervened and saved us from a lace doily moment when she raced off searching for candles for the supper table when he barked, “Okay, Debbie, STOP IT.” She settled for rheostat lowered lighting levels from the dining room’s southwestern styled chandelier.
Our dinner conversation was filled with more construction tales and H2 grousing. But quite suddenly, a new thread began. With both boys now away in college, Debbie admitted that she had recently commenced looking anew for a replacement mate. In view of her interests, it seemed Debbie wouldn’t want any slackers or whiners. She then shared with us her new method to suitability test prospective boyfriends for similar interests. After a successful neutral site demo dinner date, she would invite the unsuspecting leveled up candidate for dinner at her place. Upon his arrival, she would spring her surprise pet trick for the joker to perform before moving his candidacy onward and upward to the promised repast — he had to go out with her on a three mile hike which involved scaling a 3-400 foot high rocky hill out behind her property.
If they can’t hack this or they complain afterwards, she “wouldn’t want to be with them.” Her most recent testee was a mid 40ish lawyer. He wore more acceptable hiking boots upon being informed that they’d be advisable. He failed. She then bemoaned the lack of viable and eligible guys.
To which I playfully retorted: Well, we’ve come a long way from the 1970s. Back then, it was “Debbie Does Dallas.” Now it’s “Debbie Does DeathMarch.” Then the “Dating Game.” Now “First Base After Boot Camp.” We all laughed, but I’m not sure if she got it.
In this new millennium, the post-feminist world has moved well beyond its old Darwinist roots. Looks more and more like a mix of MTV’s Celebrity 2000 & CBS’s Survivor.
Pass me the chips, dip, and another tall cool frosty, my single 40s and 50s male friends. The bar scene is passe. Let’s watch ESPN Classic.
Day 4 miscellany and counts:
Daily Windshield Bug Smash Bingo Game winners: DNP. No qualifying bugs.
Query count for Day 5 remained the same as for days 3 and 4 due to total lack of interested interactions after our first gas stop at an empty station:
Where’re you going? – 5
What’s that? (Steve’s Valkyrie) – 3
Damsels in distress? – 4
Life & Island Times: Detour Version 1.0, Day 4
May 2001
Detour Version 1.0
Day 4
“No Livestock Unloading in the Pet Exercise Area.
Corral at the End of the Rest Area.”
-Sign at an eastern New Mexico I-40 rest stop
At other Day 4 rest stops only “livestock feeding” 
was “prohibited on any concreted areas.”
Revelation #2: Saw the earth’s curve today in the flat western expanses of the Texas panhandle — a framed 360 degree visual field of green bisected by I40 with Steve and me as the sole human presence as far as we could see standing on our pegs. A cloudless, deep blue sky completed the picture. I’d previously seen this clearly before only when on calm seas onboard US Navy ships or private sailboats. A long awe-inspiring moment.
At our early morning gas stop prior to putting Amarillo in our rear view mirrors, we met a tallish, plain looking, late 20-something Amarillo born man, whose car was towing an overloaded, enclosed U-Haul trailer. The trailer’s hitch standing still, ground clearance was roughly two inches, and it showed some grinding. He was headed to the Big Easy from San Francisco — a 2800-mile trip. In addition to furniture, clothes, computers (but strangely no TVs), the U-Haul carried a 1994 custom Harley Davidson Sportster, gotten from a still “friendly ex-girlfriend” as payment for outstanding loans from him. He intended to drop off his stuff with his mother in the Amarillo burbs and continue his journey to his current girlfriend, new job apartment in the French Quarter.
Promised a night of wild sex if he arrived in three days, he left Frisco two nights ago at high speed on his mission of all consuming importance. When asked, he listed his departure’s motivations as if reading from final declaration papers for a San Francisco divorce: pace too fast, out of control yuppie infestation, chain coffee bars killing the locally owned java shop vibe, onerous trendy candy stores which sprang up like dandelions, fashion boutiques and curio shops bursting with mass produced Asian crap (not local artisanal products) self-propagating like tree bark slime mold, Tokyo-level housing prices (postage stamp sized 1br/1ba apartment over $2000/month with outrageous junk fees and utilities) and the state mandated, minimum daily ration of Silicon Valley AssholesHight quality and creative logo design for your business in 24h … whom all inhabitants must encounter had recently risen beyond his own liberal tolerance levels.
His new apartment would cost $500/month and be one block away from the French Quarter’s Catholic cathedral. Lucky SOB. He offered that he has seen 20-30,000 motorcycles at Laughlin when he passed through (NB that rally ended April 23rd IIRC). We now understood why our arm sockets were still sore and were forewarned of another day of windmilling at bikers crossing our path. His life circumstances and choices were in stark contrast to those of our Log Cabin Lady in Erick.
Observation #6: for all single males — get girlfriend(s) like this dude. Wild sex and a Harley. Wow.
Observation #7: The Texas panhandle at 176 miles is wider than the state of Indiana. Starkly prettier too.
It looked from our odometers that we’d arrive at Day 4’s destination Santa Fe early in the PM, so we took a lot of local roads like New Mexico route 3 (great green river in the desert) and the road along the headwaters of the Pecos River. Visited a posh summer camp (Brush River) and boarding school for rich Texas and Oklahoma oil fortune kids. Steve spent his summer of 1973 teaching fly fishing (official duty) and drinking scotch (unofficial non-curricular post graduate training). He admitted that this remained a special touchstone place for him even after all these years. This was the first time we stopped at various places to take keepsake photos.
Road Trip Tip #2: Never regret paths not previously taken. Be where you are and take full measure of what life now offers. No endless navel gazing during our 50s and beyond, please.
Arrived at Steve’s older sister Barbi’s Santa Fe place on Nine Mile Road. This hacienda was personally built of handmade adobe (20,000 bricks) by her and her husband Leo in the mid-1960s and sits on what was then a remote five acres of land. They just got a paved road to and by their driveway in the last five years, and their home is now worth a fortune on time and sweat derived equity due to yuppie, retiree and California immigrant fueled real estate speculation fed inflation.
Leo and Barbi’s 20-something boys don’t want to leave this cushy nest, despite parental warnings that they intended to sell and move to a lower maintenance, less costly abode down south. Tempus fugit, boyos.
Since all rooms in the Hosenfeld Inn were full with family, I spent our Santa Fe nights in a borrowed from another family member six-person RV. I could get used to this.
We went to Harry’s Roadhouse for a sublime Mexican dinner at beyond modest prices. Since we weren’t riding, I had a margarita. After slowly consuming half of this salt-rimmed glass’s elixir. I developed a searing nonstop headache, which later multiple serial doses of prescription strength pain killers and water solved. Locals told me it was a mild case of altitude sickness.
Lesson Learned #4: After four days, 2000+ miles of dehydrating riding conditions, acclimate yourself to the 7500-foot altitude environment for a full day. Do this despite days of drinking more than a gallon of water every day and it was only a small drink . . .
Again on the trip home from dinner, I heard a repeat of another developing trip refrain: Santa Fe’s livability now stinks to the old hands. Charm all but gone, onslaught of wealth and increased permanent population. Granted this extended family had lived in New Mexico for multiple centuries.
Lesson Learned #5: they’re called chiles not chile peppers. Thus, Barbi commandeth.
The family hinted at several juncture that they knew little of their former Marine and retired US Navy brother Tent Stake’s life and job activities and details. I remained mostly mute since I wasn’t sure what they wanted to know/hear. I could have gone on at length if asked an open-ended question but this was Steve’s visit and I was but a guest.
Finally saw childhood and older relative photos on the walls of the family’s computer room. Saw which kids were partial to their father, mother, and grandparents.
Day 4 miscellany and counts:
Daily Windshield Bug Smash Bingo Game winners: DNP. Not enough qualifying bugs.
Query count for Day 4 remained the same as for day 3 due to total lack of interested interactions after our first gas stop:
Where’re you going? – 5
What’s that? (Steve’s Valkyrie) – 3
Damsels in distress? – 4
Saved round: I had known for more than a decade that in addition to his State Department job, Steve was a Springfield Virginia volunteer firefighter and EMT. What I didn’t know is that this runs in the family. Long before him, his sister Barbi was a volunteer forest fire fighting volunteer out west for decades. This clan is one of quiet warriors of the people, running toward man’s and Mother Nature’s fiery dangers when others run away.
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