Roadside Saints and Other Protectors

• Needles, California, is known to me only for the frequency with which the town ranks number one hottest spot in the US. There was no intention of stopping in Needles other than to score cold drinks and switch drivers. Thus we pulled into the combination Dairy Queen/Shell gas station, looped around the gravel back-lot and came to a stop.

• An older guy, not immediately recognizable as a roadside saint (RS), happened to be out back putting trash into the bin. He waved us over and said, “Looks like you girls are working on a flat. Passenger side, front. Pull around and I’ll fill it for you.” When we hopped out to check, it was obvious the tire was going down.

• As the RS attached the air hose, he cautioned that the tire was in really bad shape. “Michelin,” he said, “they’re no damn good. You’re going to have to replace it soon.” Having had previous experience with replacing a full set of no-damn-good-Michelins on my car, this wasn’t exactly news but it sure wasn’t the kind of news I wanted to hear out in the middle of a desert. Being a low-risk sort of person, I asked about replacing the tire and indeed the matching no-damn-good-Michelin on the driver’s side. The garage owner, another RS, came out to talk tire type and cost. Having been advised, about 1,500 miles earlier back home in Victoria, that the rear tires would probably need replacing by the end of my trip, the cursed no-damn-good-Michelin name now screamed at me from the rear tire sidewalls. By then the front tires were off and I’m sure I paled at the sight of treads that seemed to be hanging on by a few lousy threads. So I asked the RS to give me a price on a full set of six tires. Obviously the Needles economy is suffering as much as everywhere else and this potential sale music to the RS’s ears. We struck a deal to upgrade to commercial grade tires at no extra cost and replace the valves on all six tires.

• An hour later when we pulled back onto the scorching desert highway I was still feeling anxiety knowing how close we came to a front tire blow-out and perhaps a major disaster.

• Yes, I believe everything happens for a reason, even a per-chance stop for a cold drink and driver change. I am convinced the Needles RSs saved my life. And, I’m certain this happened with a full measure of assistance from the legion of guardian angels dispatched from heaven in answer to my Mother’s prayers to keep me safe on my journey. (Thanks, Mom!)
  

The Desert is a Hot, Dry Place

• After veering off the I-5 onto the more-populated US 99, passing through the olive groves, citrus orchards, vineyards, rice patties, and the raisin capital of central California, we reached Bakersfield and turned east into the desert on I-40.

• The desert wasn’t quite what I had expected. By comparison to some dry, dusty, wind-swept, forlorn places I’ve seen on the Canadian prairies, the desert actually has lots of vegetation; plenty of sagebrush that looks almost strategically planted, row after row after row in the endless sand.
  

• On the hilltops hydro windmills began to appear, first a few and then crowds of them looking much like a line of movie-style Indians slowly appearing along the top of a ridge, surrounding and signaling doom to a hapless wagon train. As the miles passed and the desert went on and on, Patti and I frequently commented about wagon trains, piteously wondering how could they possibly have made the trek? As for those windmills, I don’t know how much they were contributing to the State’s power grid since some were spinning wildly while many others stood dead still. Perhaps those were the unionized windmills enjoying a flex day. Or maybe those were the supervisors.

• Once in a while a patch of green appeared in the distance. Occasionally, there were some odd clusters of old motorhomes set well back from the road (birthplace of cults… just the kind where I imagine Charles Mason and Jim Jones got their starts). And then, barely visible through the dust and smog, a series of buildings so enormous I could hardly believe they were real. Exit after exit announced unwelcomingly: “Edwards Air Force Base: No Services”. Presumed translation: keep out - or else. Edwards Air Force Base was the first evidence I spotted of the US military’s apparently considerable presence in the desert of California and Arizona.

Notes from the Road to Arizona

• Although I had anticipated savouring a farewell look at the fabulous view from my 12th floor apartment and the sights along the Pat Bay Highway on route to the ferry, Sunday morning was one of Victoria’s foggier and, other than the immediate road ahead of me, very little was visible between home and the mainland.

• That first “day on the road” was a short one, ending within a half hour from the ferry, on the Canadian side of the border so my kids could come for a visit. Because a 24-foot motorhome doesn’t readily seat 7 for dinner, I must confess we did eat out.

• No problem at the border…..except….having responded to the question “where do you work?” with “BC Government”, the Border Guard wanted to know, “what’s your actual job?” Of course, I don’t have an actual job right now so I fudged a bit, citing the job I have left behind. Hey, I’m not in border jail, so I must have sounded somewhat credible.

• It felt wonderful to be zooming along the I-5 highway, watching Mount Baker and subsequently Mount Rainier fade into the northern background. Didn’t get so much as a glimpse of Mount St. Helen’s, however, since it was somewhere in the fog – at least, I hoped it was fog, because it looked much the same as that famous shroud of day-after-eruption dust.

• Having been distracted by a trip to Camping World and then getting sucked into an RV park membership presentation in exchange for a $50 gas card, we broke a cardinal rule of motorhome travel, i.e., get off the road before dark.

• No luck getting into either of the known campgrounds but a phone call led us to a combination motel/RV park where we would be, apparently, welcome for a night. It is probably just as well we arrived after dark and couldn’t see much of the surroundings because, as we were doing the hook-ups under the watchful eye of the kindly manager, he proudly bragged that he had cleared out all the drug dealers and had warned the residents that if they continued to use drugs he would call the police himself. That night as I lay in my bunk, I recalled in incredible, vivid and horrific detail a number of true-crime books I’ve read about various scoundrels who plundered the I-5 with their serial killing exploits.

• Things happen for a reason. Tuesday afternoon we pulled off the highway – early, needless to say – at the Seven Feathers Casino in Oregon. Having got into the wrong lane at the exit we missed the turn toward free parking and ended up at what can only be described as a skookum resort, complete with a casino shuttle service and a value card to get started on the gambling. Of course we couldn’t dash right over there because as soon as the water was turned on, there was a minor flood in the kitchen and bathroom. The first of the “roadside saints” came to the rescue, a guy named Bill from Portland. Bill dashed over from the next site, armed with flashlight, wrench and determination to find and solve the problem. Bill was returning from Reno to Portland with his Australian wife and her Australian relatives who, he said, after 35 years had not quite forgiven him for the wife’s decision to end her youthful trip to America with marriage and migration.

• Wednesday we availed ourselves of the first opportunity for free overnight parking at a Flying J truck stop in Corning California. This mega gas station can accommodate about 150 commercial transport trucks, has a welcoming staff, a great restaurant and gifts for all. This being America, the gift area features a huge stock of rifle and gun cases, with nicely textured aluminum exteriors and black egg-shell foam interiors. Hey, I’m sure nothing is too good for totin’ your guns! This was my second reminder in two days that Americans take very seriously their right to bear arms. In the previous day’s local newspaper for a place called Benton County, Oregon (population approx. 79,000) an article described a freedom-of-information request to disclose information about all persons to whom the County had issued a “permit to carry concealed weapon.” The purpose of the article was to alert all 2,000-plus such persons of their right to have the County withhold their personal information; a right that seems consistent with the whole notion of “concealed”.

• A huge motorhome, probably 40 feet long and towing an SUV pulled into the far corner of the Flying J. Although the preliminary assessment was “rich folks heading south”, it turned out to be a repo man who had just seized the motorhome and was towing his own vehicle behind so he could drive home after delivering the motorhome to a foreclosure compound. That was one of many, many, many signs of the unhappy state of the US economy. Other signs have included local newspapers – the kind with 20 pages maximum – that have page after page after page of foreclosure sale listings. One RV park host said that a year ago there would have been no room for someone (like me) pulling off the road for a night. This year, that same place is two-thirds empty. In Phoenix, house prices dropped by 38% during the month of October. Wherever we saw a TV, folks would stop talking to watch news reports about the economy, and nobody was smiling.

• Of course some folks have more troubles than others; always an inspiration to count one’s personal blessings. At one RV park, I met an interesting young woman named Sarah who has two children, both under the age of two years. Having returned from Arizona to California so her husband could help his ailing father, a roofer, with a failing business, Sarah’s husband – who is clearly not a roofer – had just broken both arms and a leg after falling off a 14-foot ladder. Sarah was fretting about the pending drive home with babies and invalid but she was even more concerned about her husband’s inability to work and pay the bills. Sarah is, however, a Christian who truly believes that Jesus is going to make this work out for her. Yes, these are tough times for many and, it seems for some like Sarah, if it weren’t for bad luck she’d have no luck at all.
  

…..to be continued.

Farewell Weekend

A week of farewell lunches, dinners and last minute shopping. On Saturday I maneuvered mineRVa through James Bay and backed her into the tiny portal between the apartment building and parkade for loading. Ok, I admit it’s not that tiny and does accommodate garbage trucks and moving vans – but it was an achievement for me. Sharon and Nick, the building managers (and former RVers) had duly authorized the parking but that didn’t stop some of the building’s griping grannies from complaining “she’s not allowed to park there.” I think they were just jealous!

Those who know me well will not be surprised that the worldly possessions accompanying me on this magnificent adventure had been packed into containers selected for their fit into mineRVa’s cabinets. Each container was numbered and the number and contents recorded in a notebook for ready reference. The notebook, the spreadsheet I had created of places, distances, exits, and RV parks, and a bible called “The Next Exit” would be within easy reach at all times.

With my scooter securely perched above mineRVa’s back bumper and the containers onboard, I headed to the Heron Rock Bistro to enjoy a few cosmos and an early New Year’s celebration. As the crowning touch of the evening, Andrew, one of the Heron Rock’s owners, asked if I might have time to select a few painting for display in the restaurant during the Christmas season. I’m sure there’s no need to tell you how good that made me feel! (Patti has been entrusted with that task upon her return to Victoria.)

Stay tuned.....

6 more sleeps

Although I generally consider myself to be fairly well organized, with 6 sleeps to go, I’m starting to wonder. Every day I thank my lucky stars that I wasn’t planning to head straight to the ferry after my last day of work.

It will come as no surprise to many that the biggest screw-ups have come compliments of those to whom the BC government has entrusted the Deferred Salary Leave Program money (MY money) and benefits (MY benefits.)

At one point the money-holder-who-shall-go-nameless said I had saved post-tax dollars so no tax will be payable. Although ideal, that info was of course too good to be true and they next gave the scary advice that no tax had been paid, they wouldn’t do a hold-back and I was on my own to deal with Revenue Canada. Having heard nothing from them in recent months, I followed up to make sure they had received my void cheque to facilitate direct deposits. Consistent with the scary theme, I suspected I might be speaking to someone off-shore when my inquiry “did you receive my void cheque?” was met with “how much was the void cheque for?” Two phone calls later, I learned a “small error” had resulted in payments starting in October instead of November. I found the deposit on my bank statement, did some quick math (payment X 12), and concluded that if the advice I had received was even close to accurate, I’m out by close to $20,000. More phone calls to finally learn income tax had indeed been withheld – and plenty of it! Needless to say I made an immediate appointment with a tax professional who will manage this in my absence.

As for the benefits screw-up…..I learned through my local pharmacist that while the benefits managers were quick to terminate my regular benefits they had forgotten to flip the switch on the continued benefits for which they had already cashed my cheque. I won’t bore anyone with the details of my conversation with them and, with that, will end this rant!

MineRVa is still at the mechanical shop, getting new rear brakes and a few other do-dads, but otherwise in tip-top shape. I’ve been tearing around every day, crossing things off my do list and have even started packing up my stuff. By sundown on Saturday, I’ll be ready to roll and will spend the evening sipping cosmos and feasting at the Heron Rock Bistro.

The rez for Sunday’s 11 a.m. ferry is posted on the fridge next to the countdown calendar on which the days are excitedly being X’d off. Sunday’s journey will be short, ending at the Peace Arch RV Park where my fab children (Robyn & her guy Fabian, Jodi and her sweetheart Kevin, and Jamison) will join me for a traditional Murphy family celebration dinner, i.e., Kentucky fried chicken.

For those who don’t know, Patti is coming on the first part of the trip – from Victoria to Casa Grande, Arizona. She is completely caught up in my excitement!

I have just seen the most magnificent double rainbow which, I swear, moved across James Bay and touched my balcony. Such beauty! Such inspiration! Such an omen of all good things coming my way!

Gotta dash…..