Kumho Solus KR21 Tires - Ripoff

After less than 13,000 miles my Solus KR21 tires were a hair's breadth from the Need To Be Replaced marker. I estimate 20% of those miles were on dirt which, altho' I have no scientific evidence for my surmisal, I surmise to be "softer" than pavement -- and thus SHOULD have helped them last longer?

So a tire that's rated for 85,000 miles actually wears out at 15,000. Doing the math, that's barely more than 15% of the advertised life. Kumho said to work it out with the dealer, but wouldn't comment on the tire's (lack of) longevity.

After some wrangling -- we have three vehicles kept shod by these folks -- the dealer prorated the usage and I accepted a set of General Altimax RT s. They don't prorate their Road Hazard Warranty so after paying for "certificates" for each of the new tires and the disposal fee for the old ones I was out another $100.00. When I pointed this out the Dealer said to take it up with Kumho. Kumho never replied to either phone calls or emails.

Let the buyer beware, eh? Or is it P.T. Barnum's quote?

Sex, Love-child & Whitney's Bookshelf - You never know what you'll find

The location of Tonopah's wifi sites are close-held secrets. In my search I stopped at a motel where the receptionist generously offered the password and invited me to "set uh spell" in the comfort -- at 9:00 a.m. it was already hot outside -- of the lobby.

While awaiting the boot-up I gently inquired: "So, ummm, what's yer plan of escape?" She launched into a heart-rending tale of how, in the army, she'd been trained as a combat medic and had acquired, through natural processes, a child. The skills needed as a combat medic are different from those in urban environs. In town, there isn't that much demand for someone who can stuff peoples' guts back inside their body cavities and stabilize them for shipment. Plus, the liabilities of urban care loom much larger than on the battlefield. Originally from Oregon, she'd returned to Tonopah to be with her family. She likes it and was committed to staying.

Continuing, she admitted to a high level of anxiety. Just that morning, two hours before she was due at work, her daycare guy gave notice. Her best friend had come to her aid but could only help for that day. She was now "wukkin' ha'der din uh cat coverin' shit on momma's new rug carryin' durt fum a mile away" to find coverage for the remainder of the week.

She leant further focus to her attitude as she described her long-term solution. She'd called a disabled Army buddy and convinced him to move -- immediately -- to Tonopah where she would not only pay him $3.00/hr for watching her son, but would let him live with her. He had agreed and said he'd arrive within a week. And all this before 10:00 a.m. !!

Then, in what was (to me) a wonderful display of self-assuredness, she described an evening of impromptu love-making with a friend that, even with preventative measures, had resulted in pregnancy...for her. Her prosody suggested they'd enjoyed themselves. And she made it clear she had no regrets.

She and the boy's father, who was transferred overseas a few weeks after their tete-a-tete, were still on good terms, but he wasn't helping with the costs. She disdained Federal Assistance and took pride in the fact that she paid her daycare people $3.00 an hour. She was making just over $5.00 an hour.

As her story unfolded my admiration of her perspicacity, optimism and commitment deepened. But the wifi was slow. So with well-wishes and a hearty "Good Luck!!", I took my leave. 


Downtown I noticed Whitney's Bookshelf.

An awesum collection, it's on par with The Archives in La Grande, Oregon. I recommend the Adults' section, in the back. Contrary to the stereotype of magazines with vapid-faced models, the BOOKS cover a plethora of orientations and a wide variety of proclivities. Prices are better than reasonable. Open seven days a week.

Dyer Nevada Reprised

While in Dyer, Nevada the other day I stopped at the Dyer Bar and their competition, The Boonies. Dyer Bar is a smokers' bar; The Boonies is non-smoking. I liked the ambiance of The Boonies better, but there's more room in Dyer Bar to get exercised (have a fight).

The high point was a visit to the library where I met Olivia. She demonstrated her "teeth & claws" technique on the librarian's hand and I duly kept mine to myself.

The library has internet access but not wifi. It's neat as a pin, the librarian is welcoming and even indulged me with a bit of interesting chat. Five stars!!

The mountains outside Dyer are almost completely pinon. The understory includes lots of beavertail cactus. They were blooming the day I was there.

Pie!!! The next best thing to sex!

After you've been around a while yer focus jus' natch'ly narrows. The things that hold yer 'tention gits fewer. One of them is pie.

At Benton Station I had a slice of apple. Three weeks later, much like that one-time dose of heroin, hit whar still on muh mind. Thus, when I agin found muhse'f in duh hood, I made sure I got there when they were open.

It's at the corner of highway 120 and 6, just up the road from Bishop (California). Gas is reasonable, there's a water spigot out front for your jug-filling convenience and the eezee access restrooms don't require a key. Pie is $2.99 a slice.

Whole pies are $12.95.

I tipped her $1.00 for ringing it up and strolled out to the lot. There's a fine elm at the far end that gives shade. I tucked muh napkin unner muh chin and set to.

It's almost like you gotta do this on a hot afternoon in July. There jus' ain't no better time. The cold-case chill tickles yer fingertips as you peel off the sarano-wrap. Nevermind 'bout slicing...we jus' gwonna eat it!!

The peaches were crunchy, like REAL ones. And the crust had a flavor reminiscent of my own....and tha's sayin' sumpin' cuz when duh cosmoz aligns jus' right I kin whomp up a pie dat make folks sit up and (in their best ebonics) say "Yaaaaaaassssss SuHHHH!!!"

I ate nearly half. Not to worry, it won't go to waste. In fact, it probly won't last more than an hour or two. The waitress said they make them every morning. I'm a believer.

Elm shade at far left 

You CAN go home again

Each place has its noteworthy attributes. The Land of Entrapment (New Mexico) is famous for its tortillas with the face of Christ on 'em.

Today, outside Bridgeport (California), I had a similar incident. Albeit not as epiphonic as a sacred tortilla, this beer bottle is obviously very special.


It was lying unpreposessedly on a hillside. I don't like to pick up after the hoi poloi and tried to ignore it, but it was the only bit of archaeological evidence lying about so I compromised my principle.

It has a seam, so that marks it as poste-industrial rather than Renaissance. But still, when one is wandering the hills like the Children of Fatima, Julie Andrews or Heidi, it's these kinds of experiences that mark one's days.





Actually, it was the cicadas that impressed. This is a good year for cicadas; they blanket the pinons and junipers across the hills. Their holes, evident wherever one walks, are often clustered in groups in the road tracks.






Their presence holds Jungian significance for me. When I was three we moved to Japan. That was also a good year for cicadas. I'd never heard them in such profusion and when the lifeguard at the nearby pool got wind of my interest he began saving them. (Japanese, at least back then, were very solicitous of  children.) He'd rescue them from the pool and keep them in a shoe box. Once a week Mom'd walk me down to make the pickup after which I'd keep 'em a few days and then let 'em go.

Throughout my life they've marked summer's arrival. But since Tokyo, I haven't experienced such a tremendous number. In those tender days, the trees were tall and the bugs out of sight. This time the trees are small and I can enjoy with ease watching them. It was a "having come full circle" experience.

I was reading an article in the October, 2011 issue of  Indian Country Today on the removal of two dams. The salmon that've been blocked from going upstream for the past 25 generations (100 years) still know where their roots lie. There are only an estimated 3,000 left, down from 380,000 in 1912, but those three thousand are eager to get upstream...home.

Another article (same issue) described a healing ceremony for people who as children had been taken from their families and raised in boarding schools. The healing ceremony included a new name which the recipients shouted to the circle of participants and which they shoutingly returned. Many of the people with new names had tears in their eyes as they walked the New Person around the circle.

And so it was for me. But unlike the Natives, as I watched the cicadas and listened to their song I recalled a numinous childhood experience of wonder and mystery. And unlike the salmon who have to wait a bit longer, I had, once again, come home.

email:     mfhalb@gmail.com

Shepherd's Pass - Independence, California

I camped at the end of the road. The next morning this storm came up. I took over 50 pictures. The rainbow was spectacular! Photos can't capture it.

It started to clear.

And then it was gone.

Tyee Lakes Trail, California

The size of the Tyee Lakes Trail parking lot got me tuh figuring there must be something to warrant that much unpaved and trammeled ground. I only went about a mile but quickly became enthralled. The granite, white at the trailhead, gets even more so with altitude.

The juxtaposition of the youth (lower right) growing out of the rock and the matriarch (photo below) got me to thinking. I turned 60 last December and that light at the end of the tunnel seems to be looming a bit brighter these days.

I bushwacked for a few minutes to take my first drink (for this trip) of "real" water from a tiny stream not too far off the trail.....mountain champagne!!


































Noticing the patterns in the bark reminded me of some of my LSD experiences eons ago.

I assured the ant it would receive all residuals.