My Great (Basin) Escape...

Dateline: Durango, CO Labor Day Weekend 2019.

“Blap! Blap! Blap! was the overriding noise heard during last year’s “Four Corners Motorcycle Rally.” ThIs audio assault was interspersed with choruses of “Varoom! Varoom!” It was all so “in your face” and ears. The few times I ventured onto Main Avenue, I saw Bud Light bellies, gray ponytails, lots of leather and too-tight jeans. The men exuded machismo and testosterone. A few of the women did too. Overall the scene was as far from Woodstock as one could get. 

When the long heavy metal weekend was thankfully done, I vowed to never put myself through that again. So... I flew at the chance to attend the 2020 Steamboat Springs Labor Day Weekend Crane Festival. Birders are the antithesis of bikers. They whisper. Alas, in our Age of Covid, the Crane Festival was cancelled yet the Motorcycle Rally wasn’t. I suppose loud exhaust pipes provide an immunity to the deadly virus. Although it didn’t work that way in Sturgis, SD.

My search for an alternative getaway began with my well worn Road Atlas. I looked west and further west until I found what I was seeking. There off Nevada’s US 50 (AKA the Loneliness Road in Merica) lies Great Basin National Park. Like a brewpub on the edge of town, it’s a destination. No one will ever say, “I was passing through the almost ghost town of GarrIson, UT (where derelict tractors and jalopies are considered lawn ornaments), and decided to visit Nevada’s only National Park. Heck! I just happened to be in the neighborhood!”

I’ve been in GBNP about a half dozen times. In fact, I was one of its first official visitors when the 77,000 acre Park was established in 1986. 

By now maybe a few of you are wondering what’s the Great Basin? I’m glad you asked since curiosity is a desirable trait. First off, Merica’s Great Basin is a BIGLY region. It’s about 200,000 square miles encompassing most of Nevada, western Utah, and scads of California, Oregon and Wyoming. The Great Basin is a “black hole” to water. The liquid flows in but nary a drop flows towards an ocean. (Unless you count Los Angeles 19O5 pilfering of the Owens Valley water. Read about it: https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2014/08/saving-mono-lake.html )  The landscape is stark, harsh and out worldly in nature. Long dry valleys are punctuated by many disjointed mountain ranges. The Great Basin is home to the oldest trees in the World. (Read all about them ( https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2018/10/lessons-from-prometheus.html  ) BTW. The distances between settlements are vast, please come prepared. Cell phone coverage is flip a coin hit or miss too, so the Cavalry might not arrive in time to save the day. 

The scenery is not for everyone, but I savor the space and openness.

On the human side, The Basin served as a sanctuary to a Born in the USA religion. In 1847, Brigham Young brought his LDS disciples (Mormons) to the edge of the Great Salt Lake. There he proclaimed, “This is the place.” (Why? I have no idea). 

The Basin’s 200,000 square miles made convenient hiding places for Merica’s embarrassments too. When FDR penned Executive Order 9066 during WW II, 120,000 Japanese residents were rounded up and placed in what amounted to concentration camps minus the gas chambers. Most of those folks were American citizens. It’s a shameful part of our history. (Read all about it https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2018/03/manzanar-revisited.html  ) 

The Great Basin is the birthplace of the “Sagebrush Rebellion.” (Which is still being fought. IE: the Malheur National Wildlife Reserve stand-off of 2016.) Many of the Basins residents harbor deep anti-Govment convictions. In Burns, OR the US Forest Service vehicle compound is fenced in with concertina wire. While ambling through, I keep my Liberal “why can’t we all just get along?” opinions to myself.

OK! Time for me to step out of the classroom and back to my Great Basin escape! It’s been two years since my last visit. The one and only grocery store in nearby Baker, NV (Population 68, 2010 Census) has been shuttered. Rough looking homes with “For Sale” signs are more prevalent than in 2018. Honestly it would be a tough place to live or make a living. The closest “real” towns are Ely, NV (67 miles away) and Beaver, UT (over 100 miles). Like I said before, come prepared with lots of food and IPAs. Yet! All these inconveniences don’t seem to stop people from coming. (It’s the Fort Collins Syndrome (  https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2018/04/the-fort-collins-syndrome.html

once again. The NPS campgrounds were all full. However my neighbors weren’t  seeking life long buddies or conversation. They were practicing high grade social distancing. There wasn’t one “Mayor” personality amongst them.   https://jeffsambur.blogspot.com/2020/07/people-who-need-people-are-the.html

All in all, it was a mellow, relaxed trip and not once did I hear “Blap!Blap!Blap!” or “Varoom! Varoom.”

Shhhh!

Stay safe, sorta sane in these crazy times and healthy,

Cheers!

Jeff back in Durango 

I was supposed to stay out longer exploring the vastness, but smoke and the onset of below freezing temperatures chased me back.

It’s all so freaking 2020

I’m suffering from Covid...

Fatigue. 

I’m guessing I’m not alone. There’s probably around  331,000,000 of my fellow Mericans somehow affected by this malady as well. 

Here’s my symptoms:

I’m worn out by walking halfway into a grocery store then perform a quick 180 degrees when I discover I left my mask behind. (Only to find many “It’s my rights!” folks are unmasked in the same store.) I’m sick of the smell and feel of hand sanitizer. I’m burnt out from repeating my new mantras. “Don’t touch your face, eyes or nose.” and the ever popular  “Wash your hands!” I miss summer blockbuster movies and mindless brewpub patio Happy Hours. I’m tired of pondering “where have all the hugs gone?” I’m over the lameness of watching baseball (when their aren’t Covid cancellations) without real live fans in the stands. I’m exhausted of thinking about a future with more questions marks than answers. Most of all, I’m disgusted with Merica leading the World in total Covid cases and body count. (Shouting “We’re Number One! We’re Number One!” seems inane and inappropriate.) 

Covid has grown weary to me.

So how am I coping with this daily assault on my senses? I leave, that’s how. I say a silent “Bye Bye” to the endless news and possible sources of contamination. I head up gnarly roads with my 4X4 “New Toy.  I find isolated spots to camp. I hit the hiking trails early while others are still in “snooze mode.” I see incredible 100 mile views. I stay unmasked and mostly to myself. With any luck, I lack cell phone coverage. I eat when I’m hungry, sleep when I’m tired and take solar showers au naturel. My Happy Hours consist of IPAs, a bowl of mixed nuts and a NY Times Bestseller non-fiction book for company. The days go by in a simple and basic way. I feel stress less. I smile inwardly often. 

You might be thinking I’m Robinson Crusoe. I’m not. Sure, it would be nice to share the solitude with like minded folks. I’ve gone fishing  for company, however most of the time I return with an empty creel. I suppose everyone is dealing with Covid Fatigue in their own way. 

Good thing I had those 6.5 years of experience living alone in a Van down by the river! 

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

So Fellow Sufferers, hang in there. Maybe we can meet for a drink on the other side of Covid

Until then,

Stay safe, somewhat sane and healthy,

Jeff

Rowing near...

Nirvana.

In my first year of living in Durango, I noticed the moment when Spring morphed into Summer. 

“How’s that? Jeffy“ Well, I’ll tell ya. Mountain bikes began to yield to watercraft on vehicles and trailers. All of a sudden my fellow Durangoans were schlepping rafts, pontoons, kayaks, duckies, and SUPs (stand-up paddleboards. I just learned the acronym a few weeks ago). Alas, there were no rowboats. Not even the inflatable kind. 

Rowboats! Who the heck cares about those cumbersome craft in the adrenaline junkie town of Durango? 

Me. I care.

When I made inquiries on where I might find a small slow rowboat, the locals gave me grief. “Dude! You need a whitewater kayak! Where’s the challenge of taking a rowboat on flat water?”

I patiently explained to my listeners. “When I wake up in the morning, I extend my left index and middle finger onto my right wrist. If I detect a palpable pulse, I’ve passed my daily challenge. The rest of my day is bonus.”

If they question my manliness further, I’ll follow with “how many burning buildings have you made entry into?” That usually stifles them.

There’s a reason I own an infatuation for those barely moving vessels. It’s sentimental. That’s why. 

When I was still a fledging under my parents wings, springtime would eventually settle upon the Big Apple. A cadre of buddies and me would take the Lexington Ave #5 train downtown to 77th street. We didn’t carry much except a pot-induced smirk, a few bucks and a return subway token. 

We’d dawdle our way to Central Park while enjoying the uniqueness of of our fellow New Yorkers. Our sojourn was usually around the Easter/Passover weekend. Of course, we’d see Jesus look-a-likes decked out in flowing white robes and sandals. But what really caught our attention was his nascent followers bowing at his feet! We never saw a Passover Moses though.

Our ultimate destination was the rowboat rental kiosk in Central Park.  Once we placed a deposit on a rickety, leaky craft, we’d perform a watery lap around the 22 acre Central Park Lake. For a bunch of teenagers born and raised in the Bronx, this was nearly a Wilderness Experience. We’d see carp, turtles, ducks and swans. We fixated on the green water, the vegetation and not the nearby canyons of skyscrapers. It was quiet and peaceful for NYC standards. This made a lasting impression on me. Enough to realize residing in the Big Apple wouldn’t be in in my future.

Nearly a half a century later, I found myself in Durango’s Big 5 sporting goods store. There I was waiting to pay for a pair of trail runners. The customer in front of me had a sizable box on the counter. I noticed the words “Inflatable rowboat.” Off I went to check the product out. Hmm. Two person boat, three inflatable chambers and holds up to 440 pounds. Why that’s 3.18 times me! On the box there was a photo of a GQ looking man chivalrously extending a hand to assist an attractive young woman aboard the boat.

Wow! Potential dates for a mere $59.99. SOLD!

Ionically, the manufacturer named the model “Challenger 2.” On my maiden voyage I rechristen it the USS Sambini. (My old fire department nickname. Much more preferable than being called “Hey A—hole!“ ) 

Now,  you’ll find me on the mighty (47 acre) Pastorius  Reservoir. (Just like Lake Superior only different). I’m there a smidgen after sunrise. It’s just me, the birds, the silence and the placid waters. The only skyscrapers are the nearby La Plata Mountains. While I’m putzing around along the shore, I feel content and happy.

Ahoy Mateys!

“I’m Popeye the Sailor Man...”

Stay safe, sort of sane and healthy. 

Cheers in our time of Covid.

Admiral Jeff