Cat Head Knob

Some decades ago Michelle bought me a drawer pull that I used first as a hood ornament on Eggbert, then as a pull on Phoebe's driver's side door. When, the other day, the rope broke, and I had the door apart to repair it, I found the artist's name stamped on the back of the piece. 

Mabel

The name of the pull is: Mabel. 

On Nov 11, 2021, Rosalie emailed a good photo of Mabel for use here. She, Rosalie, said she retired from making "hardware, but still has some remaining pieces on her shelf. Her website.


Now that Phoebe and I are in our third year, I'm thinking of maybe attaching Mabel to her hood.

Here she is on Eggbert: https://newmexnomad.blogspot.com/2014/12/cathead-figurehead.html

Eggbert, The Legend Lives On

Scroll down to #4....

https://automobili.hr/novosti/top-10/top-10-najcudnijih-off-road-vozila

In case you didn't get the translation it's:

The real underdog, Geo Metro, or the subject of the picks, forums, and carabashies of the automotive world, is a real example of a small fighter. Certain Herrmann travels and camps in a tiny triangle of American wilderness. They say the best things in life are free, and here's evidence that - if they are not free - at least they do not cost a lot.


The blogger, Vanja Mirosavljevic, recently stopped by again. (Hello, Vanja!) The article, as you may have noticed, was from December, 2015.

Trees! or Old Fool!

There was a time when I'd lope off into the woods, hike all day and come back to the car at sunset. Once, in the ponderosa and cinder fields near Bend, Oregon, I discovered I'd gone in a circle. Another time in the piney woods near Los Alamos (New Mexico, USA), I came to a promontory overlooking  some hills and mesas I didn't recognize. There was a momentary sense of panic, but I ignored it. I arrived back at the car just as the sun was sinking.

In my youth I traipsed the high, thin trails of the Salmon River Wilderness (now credited to Frank Church). One time though, when camped near a road, I went to the creek about 300 feet away to get water. Returning, I was surprised when I came out on the road; I thought I was going back to camp. The road was straight and closely bounded by very same-looking trees; I had no idea which way camp was. It was getting dark and the camp wasn't right on the road. It was a 50-50 deal.   

At some point (years later) I realized my luck had run out. I broke down and bought a GPS. Of course, electronics come with the requirement of carrying an extra set of batteries...maybe even TWO sets. And if I'm gonna carry something, I might as well take a flashlight, rain poncho and some water. I keep a pack with all this stuff, including the kitchen sink, ready to go.

But there's nothing like an old fool. And so, every now and then I think I'll just follow the road/trail a little ways and see where it goes. Each time I've gotten lost. This time, in the pinyon-juniper west of Cameron, Arizona, I was surprised at how quickly the panic set in. It was interesting, much different from the deliberations on self-deliverance (See: EXIT International) that sometimes accompany tho'ts of age and infirmity. It's a matter of control, I surmised.

As I strolled along, checking to see if I was getting thirsty yet, I recalled an essay in High Country News (great magazine!!) by a guy who lived in Alaska. He told of how whenever the conversation waned he'd blurt out "I'm from Alaska!" and everyone'd be awestruck. He acknowledged how pretty it is, but said he never ventured far from the bike path. He had no interest in encountering grizzlies, wolves or other predators; he was, he said, perfectly content to enjoy it from the safety of the street. 

My encounters with wildlife have always been numinous, but I've never gotten over the time I had to climb down a mountain to get to the creek at the bottom. It's been nearly fifty years and to this day "Ah alwayz filz up muh jugs."

I soon found the road I'd driven in on. I carefully marked the two-track I'd taken from the stream (where I'd gone to get water) and went in the direction I thought likely. Luck was with me. 

Upon arrival I paid obeisance to the GPS...and promised it I'd never go off and leave it again. 

Old fool!


Eggbert (1999 3-cylinder, Geo Metro) amongst the trees...

Mild Weather

It was December 7, a time when the mountains of central New Mexico are often blanketed in white. But on this balmy Monday afternoon, the crags stood bare against the azure.....when the phone rang.

I made it into the main drainage below and to the left of the dike. (Click on image to largen)

It was Stephen, a young Toyota salesman I'd talked to a couple of weeks earlier. We'd been engrossed  (or, at least I was) in a side-by-side comparison of a two-door Yaris and a Prius when an older salesman came over. Noting his three-day growth -- the contemporary version of the '70s gold chain -- I tried to ignore him, but when he asked what I was looking for I said a 4-door. We, Stephen and I, then watched, instantly fascinated, as he reared back on his haunches and with the vehemence of a fundamentalist preacher whose first "sinner" is blubbering toward the stage said, "You don't need a 4-door!!" So, I left.

In the 20 minutes prior to my departure Stephen'd disclosed he'd come from a Walmartz electronics department. And in the two months since he'd started he'd sold nine cars. I wasn't surprised, his low-key demeanor and easy-going helpfulness was refreshing. It would have been easy to close the deal. A couple of days later I'd made up my mind, called and asked him to call me if he found a 4-door. 

So, after he identified himself, I,  of course, expected to hear he'd found Eggbert's replacement. But it turns out part of his training includes calling people to see if maybe they've changed their minds about what they want...or something.  After explaining I'd been to college where they teach rational thinking (I got a C) and hadn't changed my mind (in two weeks) about what I wanted -- -- he admitted they make him call people.

I wish I needed a Ph.D.; it'd make a great anthro dissertation: A Longitudinal Study of Lost Sales Due to the Negative Effects of Phone Followup.

Eggbert's Successor

A little over a month ago as I was hitch-hiking back to camp, three journalists stopped to give me a ride. Andrew Collins wrote an article for Truck Yeah that introduced me to the website which you too might enjoy. It was while perusing a post that mentions the upcoming Dakar Rally I found mention of Puegot's entry...a hatchback.

The link below is to the article from whence I lifted the above picture. Of course, I'm confident I can find a better way to flaunt my stupidity than by having a black vehicle in the desert Southwest. But then, maybe not.

http://jalopnik.com/peugeots-mean-ass-rally-buggy-is-here-to-win-dakar-and-1563347299

It's premature to think about retiring Eggbert; with barely more than 200k miles he has, in my esteemed opinion, only recently reached his majority. But there may come a day when parts are no longer available. Although I'm skeptical, this might be a contend'r to fill his shooz. Hopefully, it, like he, will get 50+ miles to the gallon (5.6 L/100 km).

Shelter From The Storm

And the rains came. The view changed every few minutes so there was no lack of entertainment.

Somewhat self-consciously usurping the best seat in the house, I sat my ground for two days. In that time several interesting folks surmounted the intimidation factor and stopped to partake of the view. The first, a Norwegian Instructional Technologies (IT) specialist (John Petter Hagen) attending a conference in Las Vegas, said it all when he enthusiastically emoted: "It takes your breath away!!" We commiserated on the depredations caused by livestock. He said they have similar problems with reindeer.

The couple from Wales were vanning it and equally effusive. It's always great to meet folks whose appreciation rivals my own...and she has a sister who's an artist. Quickly employing today's technology, she whupped out her tablet and showed me some of her work. It was good enough to excite my dormant Marketeering desires. Of course it was hard to ignore the first image: multiple nude females cavorting in Matisse-esque postures with a lush and equally sensual landscape.

And last but by no means least was the man from Zurich. He was on a Suzuki motorcycle and imparted his knowledge of tires. I learned about road versus offroad pattern ratios and got to use some of my vestigial German.

But I needed shelter in which to cook. There've been a couple of occasions when I created shade, but this was my first attempt to fend off rain....so it took a while. Of course, one of the advantages of the lifestyle is the like, total disregard for expediency. As it happened, the result was better than anticipated. I was so pleased I felt compelled to THOROuGHLY document it.

Though impressed by my creativity, I later swapped the rake for a five-gallon jug.

Port side ties went to the radio antennae and the hub caps. The antennae served as a centering device with a secondary guy to the rear-view mirror taking the "weight."

Ensconced -- that's the coffeepot on the right burner. Yes, it's cowboy coffee. And it does a right fine job of growin' yer nose hare. The propane tank hails from Whitehorse, the capital of the Yukon where a kindly dealer traded me straight across for my backyard grill behemoth.

This fine photo was taken by John Petter Hagen an avid photographer with a superb collection on Flickr.





















And then one day you look in the mirror and wonder, "How'd I get so old....and phat?"

Backpack on Wheels

I enjoyed hitch-hiking and backpacking in my youth but was, on occasion, stymied by distances into the wilds where water was scarce. 

By retirement, the solution had appeared...a backpack on wheels. And although my choice is more a matter of aesthetic, when I read this article I had to nod in agreement. 



Eggbert!

Outstanding in His Field!!

1999 Chevrolet Metro 3 cylinder five-speed. 217,256 miles. With street tires mileage varied from 43.7 - 51.2 mpg depending on load and prevailing winds. Now, at max GVW and with snow tires (much better traction) he gets a rock-solid 40.0.  

Lately, I've gotten even MORE a.r. (anal retentive) and began using the Ferrari method for warmup: let run for one minute; switch off for one minute then idle to operating temp. His latest set of shoes, Cooper Weathermaster ST/2, have been the best so far.

Demise: On or around May 2, 2016 I made my first mistake in over 45 years when I turned in front of an oncoming Dodge RAM 2500. We were in a residential neighborhood going slow so no one was hurt, but Eggbert's right side was crushed beyond repair. After driving him back to Albuquerque, I donated him to the Make a Wish Foundation. The proceeds of his sale will benefit the New Mexico Chapter.

Virgin Galactic Spaceport & Shrooms

I like to move every couple of days and after some map perusal settled on Engle (sometimes spelled Engel and/or Engele), on the east side of Elephant Butte Lake. It turned out to be nothing more than a junction with buildings belonging to the Armendaris Ranch (a Ted Turner conservation collaboration). At some point I'd noticed the Point of Rocks on my topo map; they were due south, on the only road, about 20 miles.

It was nearing suppertime (4 pm) when the pavement ended. I was bumping along enjoying the afternoon when suddenly the phone rang!! It's illegal to use devices and drive so I immediately looked for somewhere to pull over and there, less than 50 feet ahead, was a two-track into the wilds. Her timing is sssOOOOOOoooo exquisite!!

I wondered who had put the rock there...and why.

Eager to be away from the main thoroughfare, I tried multitasking.....checking the washouts to see if Eggbert could get through. She felt ignored, but I couldn't stop myself when I noticed this magnificent specimen...further evidence of global warming.

After moving around the bend we unpacked. During the night a couple of trains went by but they didn't honk-and-wave so it was tolerable. In the morning I hiked up the nearby hill and was astonished to recognize Virgin Galactic's spaceport just over the way. If you know what you're looking at, you can make out the huge SE facing windows of the hangar-main spaceport facility. For those unfamiliar, it's that dark-brown line at the far right exactly half-way down. The lighter area above the dark-brown is the roof. Virgin Galactic's website has more photos. (10/31/14 Crash kills one injures another.)

The main entrance.

No access to the front yet, at least not for the hoi-poloi.



Here's Eggbert in full regalia.The bugnet is a double bed REI special. Note trenching tool at lower left and "new" hat on dashboard. I got it for $1.00 at the Mental Health thrift store in Socorro. Every Tuesday is half off. It fits better than any before. 

Forth & Back...Colorado/Albuquerque

The trip to Colorado was cut short by rain. It started during the night while camped about 30 miles south of Farmington, New Mexico on the road to the Bisti Wilderness. The morning strutted the famous turquoise sky with some thin clouds on the horizon, but by 9:00 things had changed...those thin clouds had blown themselves up to all-encompassing proportions and were now heavy and gray. They were everywhere and after an hour of wandering around Farmington (enough to make anyone suicidal) I bowed to my intuition and headed back to Albuq. That was Sunday. The rain finally stopped yesterday (Tuesday).

The Plan is to depart on the first for the Windscape Kite Festival at Swift Current, Saskatchewan. In the meantime, I went to the U-Pull-It junkyard where I got lucky. 

The tale starts at 3:00 p.m. (gettin' hot) at the entrance to the yard. The young woman who takes yer money and stamps yer hand (like at a bar) directed me to the self-serve kiosk to find the location of desired vehicles. I'd gone online a few days earlier to make sure they had some vehicles but according to *this* unit there were none. I went to ask for a refund and instead she handed me a list; they were in the next-to-last row, a quarter of a mile away. (Mind you, 1/4 mile isn't that intimidating, but at 32 degrees celsius with armloads of junk it's a bit of a trek.)

An hour and a half later, sweating to rival Niagara, I'd morphed into a hoarding dragon. I had a radio, a practically-new driver's seat, window cranks WITH KNOBS and a variety of plastic thingies. Looping the hatch gasket (4m of rubber tubing) over my shoulder like a bandolier, I tucked stuff under my arms and clutching the rest, slogged to the front. They close at 4:30 and it was 4:20 when I presented myself to the cashier. She'd tabulated $75.00 when I realized I'd left the seat next to the car. She said they'd wait while I retrieved it. The line behind grew unruly as I inquired about where to leave my stuff. She warned that people might bother it if I left it there. Since I was now in physical danger, I stepped out of line and watched the toothless, howling horde surge forward. Eager to be home with their TeeVee(s), they practically threw the money at the cashier.

Roberta, Stan and Tasha

It was then I spied the young woman who'd stamped my hand two hours earlier. She was stocking the coke machine and with a quick shuffle I was at her side. In my best beseeching whine, a remnant from my panhandling days, I begged her assistance. Her gimlet eye prompted a self-assessment -- olde, unattractive and at her mercy. But she agreed, although I could tell it was "irregular" and an imposition. (I know this is tedious, but bear with me.)

I grabbed a wheelbarrow (courtesy conveyance) and blearing (sweat coursing off my brow) through the heat waves made the trudge forth & back. It was well past 4:30 when I returned but the pushers and shovers were gone. A quick inventory reassured me my stuff was still there. I pulled a $5.00 from my wallet and turned to begin my hunt for the coke-stocker when suddenly, she magically appeared. 
She wanted to know what it was for. 
I reminded her of my request to keep vigil. 
She feigned disdain. 
I demanded to know if she'd done the job. 
She admitted she had. 
After vociferously advising she "Just say thank you!!" she acquiesced. 

I then turned to the cashier, a different one than The Tabulator (see para above photo). Once again presenting my gleanings, she informed me she'd added them up while I was gone. And after deftly inserting the seat into her calculations, she announced the total: "$59.48."

As I scrambled to clear out, the parts did their damnedest to escape from under my elbows and fall from my arms, the coke-stocker enthusiastically wished me "Havva good day!" Her accompanying smile was a priceless treasure.

It's a fur piece from the junkyard to the residential area and the route passes by the University north golf course, a favorite walking place. As I approached a stop sign Roberta, Stan and Tasha rounded the corner. Hand-in-hand, obviously enamored of each other's company, their smiles glowing brighter than the day, I couldn't pass them up. They kindly agreed to be photographed.

You'd have to have been there to appreciate the cumulative effect: the spring in their step, the afternoon light, the satin highlights in her skirt, Stan's t-shirt and the incredible New Mexico sky. A splendid topping to a fine afternoon! Every once in a while "the city" manages to produce.

Kettle Falls, Idaho - Not a Xenophobe in Sight

Time to do laundry. 
When I asked how many quarters it took he explained how one dryer got hotter. His openness came as something of a surprise since, when I'd visited this part of the world before, folks seemed noticeably xenophobic; it turned out he'd done a stint in the military which often fosters an easy amiability. When you know you're going to move within a short amount of time, you make friends quickly, or not at all. 

While he folded sheets and pillow-cases I learned he'd grown up in California, been stationed in Clovis (NM) and Alaska, spent eleven years in the mill in Kettle Falls before returning to school to study massage. He's a Rolfing specialist and has been in business for three years. Thus, all the sheets. In addition, he's a watercolorist and his wife does ceramics. 

As he told his story he described how, at 18, he'd joined the Air Force hoping to travel. Vietnam was going strong and his Mom was opposed to him enlisting. Stationed at Clovis, New Mexico, he spent most of his time in the barracks and sent his pay home. His Dad had died when he was 12 and with two siblings his Mom needed the help.

When stationed near Seattle he and a buddy went into town and got a room. It turned out the buddy was dealing drugs and the cops showed up. They hauled them both in but Greg's sergeant knew he wasn't the type and got the Base Commander to get him out. The sergeant's help came as a surprise as he hadn't given Greg a clue that he was in such good standing. 

In those days a bust like that would have ruined Greg's military career. Listening to him tell it, I recalled the era, the violence and the lost lives. A friend spent four years in a Federal penitentiary for possession of two, thin joints. I was in Nashville, Tennessee when Stokely Carmichael spoke and I knew first-hand the validity of the race riots. I also demonstrated against the war. And now, over forty years later, it was heartening to be in the company of someone who'd come through it all, at least from what I heard, okay.

509-675-5572 or 509-675-5571

When I asked how he'd surmounted the world-famous American aversion to touch, Greg told me how the folks in this neck of the woods have to work for a living, the kind that caused Maynard G. Krebs's voice to break. Many incur injuries and when standard medical practices fail to alleviate the problem, people come to him. 

He described how a wife whose truck-driving husband had injured his shoulder led him by the hand and stood by while Greg rolfed him. The results were so impressive that word quickly spread and he's been busy ever since. (Mrs. Pritchett is a certified Rolfer as well.) 

While I was waiting for a dryer, Eggbert got a bath. The local chapter of Proud to Wear an Apron (PWA) was having a fund-raising car wash to send the girls to Texas to compete in the Nationals. They didn't respond when I inquired if they were taught birth-control, but the enthusiastic appreciation for my contribution begged the question: Were their attitudes developed through participation in the organization or did they choose to participate due to their attitudes?

Kettle Falls is something of a throw-back to the 60s with some contemporary twists. There's a good-sized organic foods and vitamin store where a woman in hiking boots, wearing a beaded cap and ankle-length skirt with a baby in a sling on her chest looked as if she'd just come from a Rainbow Gathering. Down the street, Kettle Falls Foods had, the evening before, held a grand-opening party to acquaint the community with the new owners, one of whom, who came out to dispense the propane, appeared to be of East Indian heritage. When I mentioned I'd bought out their stock of Sheaf Stout, he acknowledged his extensive selection of micro-brews. The times they are a chaaaaaannnnnnggggiinng...in spite of the xenophobes.

Silver City - Land of Books, Gelato (Ice Cream) & Shoe Repair

UPDATE 3/2015
It was at Caballo Lake that I discovered my boot was coming apart. The nearest cobbler was Las Cruces, a metropolis notable for being the home of the Southwest Environmental Center, but I was westheaded. In Silver City I found Silver Shoe Repair at 806 N. Bullard...next door to The Curiosity Shop (see below). David Wait tried to charge me $5.00 for a $20.00 job, but I was too sharp for him. He bought the business a year and a half ago and is, I think, still thinking of dark ages wages. Hopefully, if he tries to price his work at 1940s prices, you too will insist on proper compensation. And an excellent job it was!

I owe it all to Karen in the Visitor Center who, on 3/31/14  *thought* there was a bookstore on Bullard Street, but cautioned that, "It may have closed."
It hadn't and as of 3/12/15 still hadn't. 

By the time I neared (I walked!!) the end of N. Bullard (back in 2014) I was about ready to accept her surmisal, but something pulled me on. And there, almost exactly, get that, ALMOST exactly fifty feet from the corner of College Avenue is The Curiosity Shop (808 N Bullard). Karen hadn't given a name but being a direct descendant of Rudyard's elephant, I right away expected great things.

She wore a hyacinth-purple sweatshirt and a smile to brighten even a day in Cleveland (Ohio). And though the store is advertised as a gift shop, the collection of used books (and other stuff) is phenomenal. Prices are consistent...between $2.00 and $3.00. 

While I browsed, a goateed strolled in and mentioned how difficult his partner was to get along with. The proprietress suggested maybe it was *he* who was difficult. He acknowledged that could be, but that her anger was often an indication of the pain she was in. I returned to my perusaling, but their conversation was more intimate than I've encountered elsewhere. It reminded me of a line attributed to Maya Angelou: I like to foster intimacy, not familiarity.

Even at the low prices I stopped myself at seven. As I stood paying, another man came in, handed her a bag of freshly-cleaned trout, and without a word, went back out. She said he throws most of them back, but brings her some every week. 

Obviously, a Hub of the Universe.

Eggbert, micro RV extraordinaire

That's it behind the lampost. Silver Shoe Repair is the blue door on the right.
The shadows were lengthening so I 'cided I'd best be movin' on.  

But luck had other ideas. As I was walking back to the car a child descending some steps with an orangefully bright plop in a cup directed me to notice the overwhelmingly mega window text: Alotta Gelato. 

I asked for spumoni and was told that most cities had a maker who supplied the vendors. He'd seen one recipe that included 28 ingredients and decided one had to draw lines somewhere. With that color still Clamoring In My Mind (John Denver?), I splurged for a medium-sized mango. The quantity was MORE than adequate and carried me into the evening. 

When I asked where it came from he replied, "Any idiot can sell it! We make it."

Here's his blog....

blogsilvercity.blogspot.com

Here's the store's website....

www.alottagelato.com

They're both worth the trip. And STILL the myriad galleries! 

10 miles South of town there's dispersed camping at The Continental Divide Trail on highway 90 a few miles past Tyrone. Local yokels like to come through and pop off a few shots and there's cow shit and flies all over the place but it's free.

We Have Ignition

DANNER Boots Update: 10/24/14 
I had the heel lowered (twice) to make them serviceable. I've had to replace a couple of eyelets and the stitching between the upper and the lower had to be renewed, but now, after two and a half years, I'll buy Danner again....or maybe Wesco.

After summering in the Yukon t'other day, I 'cided ah cud do with some REAL boots. I'd burned through several pairs over the prev 18 months and couldn't find a good used pair anywhere. The Redwing 899s I bought in 1976 had dry-rotted tuh death a few years back, but they'd served well so I bought another. Wouldn't yuh know it? I got the one in 10,000 that had too much dye. After a mild day of traipsing, muh feet'd be as yaller as an ole dawg an' smelt lak carrion.

Even sleepin' by muh lonesum ah had tuh warsh muh feets. Hit took 'bout uh year tuh decide hit whar the boots, not me. By that time the warranty had xpired. The regional supervisor stepped in tuh make hit right, but hit took dang near an act o' Congers tuh git his attenshun. Thet wuz the incentive tuh try Danner.

Ah found uh pair uv Fireline 18000 (now called Flashpoint II, I think) at Kaufman's, a trusted Albuquerque supplier to police, fire-persons and similars. I paid $260.00. Hit's only been a month, but so far hain't no trace of dye nor stink. When I went to the Danner website to see what they charge I discovered a whole wide world of shooz unimaginable. Check out STUMPTOWN...hit's uh trip.

The plan is to leave in the next couple of days (5/23) for the Tetons. Ah'm headin' fur the West side, East of Ashton, Idaho. Judging from the map, there may be enough elbow-room to hang out for a while. Then, as summer ripens, I'll segue into The Frank Church River of No Return Wilderness in central Idaho.

I'm coming full circle. In teen years I'd winter over in a city, save my pennies & pine for Spring. I read about Sylvan Hart in a magazine and set out to find him. I wandered the hills near Burgdorf and Warren, Idaho in the then Salmon River Primitive Area. I suspect I never got anywhere near Mr. Hart, but the trout were excellent! And judging from the photos, Burgdorf hasn't changed much.

It’s been eight months in Albuquerque. My neck and back are still sore from the accident, but I can’t stand being in town any longer. The barking dogs, motorcycles, reek of asphalt have reached critical mass.

Here's Eggbert near Duncan in SE Arizona. (I'd read Duncan is/was a thriving art colony and went to see.) As you may note, the passenger seat is missing; the tan lump in front of the dashboard is my pillow. The edge of my sleeping bag is hanging out the door. To the right of the clear jug is my one-gallon propane tank. It'll go two weeks of cooking and heating bath water. The stacked boxes are food, pots and pans & assorted kitchen ware.