Being a Cold Weenie...

is a curse.

We base our decisions on past experiences. ( I.E. A child quickly learns the harsh lesson of a hot stove top. )

So after a decade’s worth of visits to Death Valley National Park in the months of February and March, I deemed it warm enough for a month long layover from true winter. Alas, Ma Nature has a way of monkey wrenching the best of game plans. In that time frame Death Valley had below average temperatures and above average winds, dank clouds and precipitation. Bummer for me. 

While there, I was able to recruit Greg L. ( a former firefighter colleague ) to backpack the Cottonwood/Marble Canyons Loop with me. Of course, it was cooler than normal. Ice formed overnight on nearby puddles. I froze my tuchas off the two nights we camped. Of course I whined about it. ( The 28th Amendment guarantees me the right to complain. If everyday citizens can possess a weapon of mass destruction, I should have the Right to whine. )

After a while, Greg had enough. I can’t blame him. I can become the Wandering Wondering Whiner pretty easily. He said, “Jeff! You need to get over this cold weather obsession.”

I replied, “Greg, I envy people like you. I wish I could handle all the seasons. My life would be so much simpler.” 

As we started hiking ( me wearing two layers of fleece while Greg wore a cotton T-shirt ), I thought about what he said. 

Then it dawned on me, I come from a long line of Cold Weenies. It’s in my DNA.

Mike and Robin ( the best brother and sister-in-law in the World ) split their time between Palm Beach, FL and Queens, NY.

My Dad, Sid spent the entire year in South Florida. No Snowbird action for him. Sid rarely flipped on his AC even in the muggiest most sultry of Delray Beach summers. He might have been a Cold Weenie, but he was no Heat Weenie. 

Recently, Israel sent 10 competitors to the Winter Olympics in South Korea. Let’s just say the results were no “Miracle on Ice.” 

Go way back to Biblical times. Read about Moses leading his manna munching Tribes for 40 years through the Empty Quarter of the Mideast. Hebrews are the People of the Desert. No one calls the Jews the “Frozen Chosen.” 

Being a Cold Weenie is in my blood. I’m unable to click my flip-flops together three times ( with eyes closed ) and say out loud, “I’m going to live in a Igloo. I’ll bide my time making Snow Angels while naked.” It’s not going to happen. 

So...one day I’ll probably settle down half the year in Colorado. The other half in Snobsdale, Arizona. This might happen sooner than later. 

From cold ( of course ) and windy Bishop, CA.

A chilly Cheers,

Jeff

PS. All the photos are from the Cottonwood/Marble Canyons Hike. That’s Greg who now knows I’m a Cold Weenie. 

Final photo. There are alligators in Death Valley NP.

I think about Everett Ruess...

 a lot each and every time I meander off in the Southwest deserts. The region is wrinkled, contorted, tortured and beautiful. It’s an equal opportunity area. Fools or those who come prepared, can meet the same dismal fate. America’s SW is a harsh land.

But I’m getting ahead of myself.

Who’s Everett Ruess? 

Everett wandered the SW from 1931 to 1934. Then the land wasn’t fenced in. There were few National Parks or Monuments. Towns had the feel of outposts rather than bastions of civilization. Roads were rudimentary. Everett’s means of transport was his feet and a few burros. One day he went into a Utah canyon and forgot to come out. He was last seen in Escalante, Utah. His body was never discovered. He was 20 years young. Mr. Ruess is a mystery that’s never been solved.

 

Everett gained fame after his death. There was poetry in his letters to friends and family. There was teenage angst in others. His love of Wild Places was palpable. He was a starving artist. He was sort of a slacker. He had no problem with asking his parents for a handout. Mr and Mrs Ruess supplied the cash for him to go along his merry way. Maybe this was their way of keeping their eccentric son from becoming a family embarrassment. 

In contemporary times, Everett would reek of cannabis, have dreadlocks and reside in Telluride. He would be a Trust-a-farian. 

So why do I think of Everett? 

I too venture alone into the Southwest canyons, mesas and cliff sides. It’s a is vast landmass.  There’s plenty of rugged terrain devoid of trails. The few that are out here might have been made by game, old miners or intrepid hikers. When I spot them, I follow them not knowing where they might lead. I tiptoe into mine shafts until the light fades away. This isn’t smart. Things can go wrong out there with no one to hear your cries of “HELP!” 

At times rocks which have been stationary for eons might decide to shift. This occurred to me on a cliff a few years ago. 

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2016/02/as-i-was-falling-over-backwards.html

If you don’t believe me ask Aron Ralston. 

Mother Nature is a beautiful thing until she decides to maim or murder you. 

I take less risks now. I’ve become much more conservative overall. A twisted ankle or a sprained knee would be a bad thing. I don’t have a desire to hike into a canyon and forget to come out. I’m not sure if people would find poetry in my blogs or beauty in my photos. I might not ever get famous! 

I promise to be careful out here. 

Cheers from colder than average Tecopa Hot Springs,

Jeff

“Yet what is travel...

If not the art of creative homelessness?”

From “No-Man’s Lands” by Scott Huler

It’s been six months since I’ve resided in Barley the Van.

I spent four of those months overseas. I had no choice but to leave my four-wheel  Buddy behind. Barley won’t fit in an airplane’s overhead bin compartment. 

The other two months, I slept inside a thing called a bedroom. There were no wheels beneath me. I had indoor plumbing!  So this is how the other 99.8% live. 

 

For half a year, I’ve been living as large as a 6’3”, 239# Lying Scumbag President. It’s now time to readjust to Barley’s 66 square feet of living space. ( most of which is a Queen-sized bed. ) 

I’ll be reading by headlamp, drink my water from Nalgene bottles and cook on a Coleman stove. I’ll be showering outside with solar heated water. I’ll admit it. It’s sort of a feral existence. I can’t  dwell too much on how strange my life must seem to “normal”folks. At times, it’s even strange to me. 

I’ve now been in the Greater Death Valley Region for over a week. On my hikes, I’ve seen two jackrabbits, one Desert Bighorn and a docile Dude from Washington State. I knew he was harmless since his pick up truck sported a “Kill Your Television” bumper sticker. That’s a Peace-nik. 

It’s been quiet. A little too quiet, as I’ve noticed nothing but couples in the campgrounds. The few single travelers own dogs; which in  their World makes them a couple too. The stigma of the single man in the white van, is once again, becoming my reality. 

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2017/04/the-stigma-of-single-man.html

I might be going through the motions of solo traveling. There’s only so many times in a day, I can say out loud, “Look at that! Isn’t that beautiful?” But there’s no Significant Other on the receiving end to appreciate the scene. Nor a companion to clink drinks with at Happy Hour. 

http://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2017/12/i-fear-im-losing.html

I’ve been at this WW J thing a little short of six years. Maybe there’s an expiration date to this solo kosher Wandering? 

With all that said, ( No One writes a more honest blog than me. No One. It’s 100% Fake News Free ),  for the next three months I’ll continue on my way to remote places in the SW.  I’ll have plenty of time to wander, wonder and ponder. I’ll keep looking for a sign to show me the way.

Who knows? One day, I might drive into a campground and there will be a pink Barleian Van owned by a WW (fill in the religion) Woman. It could be a match made in heaven.

Don’t get me wrong. I still love traveling. I just might be losing my Mojo for going solo. Only time will tell. 

Cheers from chilly Death Valley National Park,

Jeff

I’m posting this from Pahrump, NV. There’s more gun dealers and casinos than grocery stores. There’s no brewpubs but I can buy plenty of Bud Lite. It’s not on my list of possible places to settle down. 

It’s now politically correct to say this, it’s a shit hole.