Homeless on Kanab Creek

Six days ago,  while boondocked near Kodachrome Basin State Park, Phoebe let out a loud CRASH as she rolled backward off the block I'd set up to adjust her clutch. It wasn't long to realize the clutch was no more.

I got her going using the starter (HURRAY for standard shift!!)  and drove to Kanab where Tricky Ricky Rocks (see blogpost) had vetted Little's Diesel Service.

In the course of things I consulted (this is for all you other Tracker enthusiasts out there) with Fritz Gafford, owner  of Tracker Ranch in Livingston, Texas. Another Tracker driver met somewhere had described him as an aficionado.  Over the course of our 20-minute conversation I came to appreciate his opinion.

Over the last six days I've gained a feel for the vast gap 'tween Overlanding/RV living and homelessness. I was lucky to find a nice campspot within walking distance of town. Less than a stone's throw from Kanab Creek. Aside from the highway noise and a few ATVers, it was idyllic. But thinking about it as a way of life brought into contrast the difference between the motorized mobile life and a shopping cart.

In my teens I hitchhiked the U.S. with a Camp Trails "Freighter." Camptrails' largest backback, I never could get it, during the four years I lived out of it, below 60 pounds. I traveled sans tent; when it rained I hunkered under my poncho. I had an army-surplus sleeping bag someone had added a pound of goose down to that enabled me to sleep comfortably in sub-freezing temperatures.  A breakdown fishing rod and a few hooks helped tease the trout out of the Idaho streams. I kept a journal, carried some brown rice and soy sauce, an extra pair of jeans, three shirts and several changes of underwear. It couldn't understand WHY it weighed so much.

Now, with three boxes, several backpacks, although none designed for living out of, my sleeping bag -- a car-camper special -- weighs twice as much as the one in my youth and isn't as warm.

The last hitchhiker I picked up, several years ago, said it'd taken him two weeks to get from Nashville to Albuquerque; a distance I'd covered in the '60s in three days, at the most.

They just called and said Phoebe's ready. They found several other things wrong and aware she's my home, they made the repairs to last. Billy hadn't added it up yet, but I'm suspecting it'll take me a couple of years to pay it off. But if you're ever near Kanab, Utah and need help, Little's Diesel is the place. Mike Little does the diesel and Billy does the automotive.

It's great to have my home back!!


$900.00 for a clutch and some custom work on the pedal linkage.

Tricky Ricky Rocks

It's rare, in this age of gray t-shirts and khaki shorts, to meet anyone whose sheer exuberance...

After poring over the maps I settled on Junction Creek Rd. A little before Junction Cr Campground (god preserve me) the decision loomed...Forest Road 204 or 205. 204 said NO CAMPING FOR NEXT EIGHT MILES (7 miles past Animas Overlook). It HAD to be good. 

Six miles past Animas Overlook I encountered Rick. He was working on his trailer and, having just finished oiling the wood and tightening the screws in the board ends, was about to lay some carpet to further protect it. Retired from computer programming, he'd bought the Bounder six months earlier; the trailer was new too.

Too steep to Hike

This was a wide spot, hardly more than the length of the Bounder. I was curious about how he'd managed to get facing downhill. "It was a six-point turn", he said...meaning it took six attempts. He described how, at one point, he was trying to go back but nothing was happening. When he got out to see if maybe there was a rock he discovered he was up against the mountain.

The dropoff is like the upside, almost straight. He stamped his foot to show how he'd checked the edge for firmness before pulling up to it, but admitted he wasn't totally convinced; the fact that it'd hold him didn't guarantee the motorhome.

Flaunting its patina and pumping its forearm - Mercedes rules, maaaaaaan!

There was some annoyance with the Forest Service. They'd said the road was accessible to all; that there were trails where he could ride his (motor)bike, and there was dispersed camping. Well, there *was* dispersed camping, but the boulder at the 6.8 mark was a formidable impediment, even for Rick. As for trails, you couldn't hike on these hills, let alone ride a bike.

As I turned to go he said his wife had finally told him, after 30 years and some children, she'd never loved him. But, he added, he'd reached the point of being able to say it out loud so he knew he was getting over it.

I'm still wondering how he got the trailer turned around.