The
following selections are partial samplings of several Nova News
posts from our time on the Rode as Fulltime RVers.
Certainly, what appears amount to little more than a thumb
nail sketch and are merely meant to whet one’s appetite.
Susan and Nova in full array 1999
Subject: Nova News #17
Date: Sat, 4 Dec 1999 10:56:28 -0800
From: <BLUENOVA@pocketmail.com>
M: We're parked at a
$10 a night site, somewhere off the beaten path of hwy 54 and
186 miles further south into New Mexico than we were yesterday.
Today is my birthday, whatever that may mean, and I'm sippin'
mornin' coffee and wonderin' a bunch of "Huhs?"
I figure that since I am the birthday boy, it’s only
fair I indulge myself a bit and do some ear bendin'.
Therefore, hang tight…this may be a 2 parter.
To begin with, I've been
dreamin' like a mofo lately. They've been lucid, with a depth
and clarity that awaken me more often with a "Whoa,"
than a "Let's get on with the show." I look at 'em, these Dreamtimes of mine, and work 'em
like metaphoric crossword puzzles to get whatever hidden message
underlies the surface of things.
Once understood, it seems practical to incorporate their
subconscious knowledge base into productive assets we can call
upon whenever the need may arise. They’ve been an ace before, and
gotten me outta more jams than I care to count.
Yet, like I said, lately
there's been less and less need to dig at 'em deeply, because
whatever it is presenting is right there...in my face. I think this is due to the gypsytude of
it all, and, perhaps, some manner of latent human ability that
helps compensate for a "make it up as ya go along" lifestyle. This makes sense, to a great extent, and
I'll likely bring it up while hunkered over a beer and campfire
with others we meet on the road.
Have faith; your Nova News team will report whatever correlations,
if any, may be found.
I've been thinkin' about
Chuck again lately. Especially is this so since after he got
shot up in Viet Nam, he came to NM to get a pilot's license from
some flight school around these parts while utilizing his DAV
benefits. Before he could get funded for this little
endeavor, he had to file papers intentionally diminishing his
disability rating and grant him approval to fly from the right,
rather than pilot from the left side, of an aircraft.
Ya see, Ol' Charles had
ditty bopped into a Viet Cong ambush back in March of '67 and
promptly took two AK 47 rounds to his left arm, vaporizing his
elbow. The additional
grenade fragments shattered his ankle and peppered his skull made
for, according to him, a really shitty day.
Yet, he wanted to fly and his disability rating wouldn't
allow it. His remedy was to tell Uncle Sam to stop
giving him his pittance of money, lower his rating and approve
him to learn how to fly so he could get a job and make his own
way. The government thought this was a jim-dandy
idea and approved…immediately.
Anyway, I was thinkin'
bout Charles this mornin' and how he'd take off each weekend for
the Mexican bordellos just across the border from here.
Weird as he was, "the girlies of the night" always
grew to like him as a person, rather than a customer, and he liked
them as just plain people too. He didn’t look down on ‘em, cheap talk or act disrespectful,
he wasn’t built that way.
Chuck never did fly for
a commercial company requiring uniforms or regulations.
It wasn’t his style.
Instead, for years he flew as a bush pilot up north in
Alaska where he, eventually, came to live in a small outpost called
McGrath. He'd fly supplies into hermit gold miners and hidden Eskimo
villages with planes that had no heat and were held together with
duct tape and speaker wire. This,
of course, was after he spent 3 years hunkered in an 8 x 10 dirt
floored cabin in the middle of the Alaskan Frontier while (in
his words) he "thought about stuff." I asked him if he could be a bit more specific regarding what
he “thought about,” and met the following response. “Mike,” he said, “I
always wanted to face my fears and put my foot somewhere on the
planet where nobody else ever has before...and that’s what
I did. It was my church.”
No
doubt, most folks will never understand why this accomplishment
was so important. No
doubt, most folks have never heard of Simon Kenton or Jim Bridger
either, but for those who have, they’ll get a sense of how
high Charles set the bar...and how many he left in his dust.
Damn...that ol’ boy did shine.
It
wasn't as much his Viet Nam PTSD that got him that far out on
the fringe, but his thirst for adventure.
So strong willed was he, no ambush or AK47 could ever take
it away. Me and him would always Birthday toast one another when he
was still around and I figure to do that again today by tippin’
a beer and applauding Charles as 'the Greatest National Geographic
Explorer," I have ever known.
(Continued)
Subject: Nova News #26
Date: Mon, 13 Dec 1999 08:09:53 -0800
From: <BLUENOVA@pocketmail.com>
M: Charles said, "Damn, Roots,
I ain't never seen anything like it…I swear to God, Buddy,
what Tex showed me in his cabin that night were the biggest nuggets
I'd ever seen and worth a fortune...Man, mi amigo, he even said
it wasn't nothin' compared to the mother lode."
I tried to convince Charles
that it was probably fool's gold, painted rocks or some such,
but he'd have none of it.
"Bullshit,"
Chuck said, "I've seen lots of gold before, Mike, more than
most folk ever will in their lifetimes because in the Bush it
gets swapped everyday. It's
a way of life that people in the Lower 48 states don't know nothin'
about. Hell, everybody
up there just gets used to it after awhile and I had to know more
than most because I took it in trade for supplies I'd fly into
the wildcatters."
With
that said, I had to do a little back steppin' and apologize to
Charles for questioning what he saw.
It, actually, wasn't about his stuff to begin with and,
instead, more about mine because I was the one that didn't know
squat regarding gold and went negative on him due to my own ignorance.
"Well," I ventured,
"tell me everything ya remember...everything.
Maybe we can figure out where he hid the stuff and go on
up there and get it."
Apparently
this thought never occurred to Charles, because it was like the
pearly gates done got flung open, Baby Jesus came down from heaven,
tapped ol' Chuck on da head and said, "Boy Howdy."
I really, btw, loved
watching his facial expressions alter whenever an idea would thunder
across Chuck's mental landscape. The progression generally went in stages
that began with his eyeballs growin’ as large as manhole
covers and, depending upon the scope of the project, result in narrowed slits as his brain began to shoot
angles. In this case,
he coulda cracked walnuts with his eyelids cause he was crunchin'
numbers like an L.A. accountant and when his peepers said bingo,
it came out, "Ohhh Rooooots…we could be rich…we
could be really reeeaaally rich."
And than he smiled, slow
and ugly, and I knew it was high time to get ta figurin' cause
we was like two mongrel dawgs done gone to heet and hankerin'
for the huntin' of dem bones spun from gold.
(Continued)
Subject: Nova News #28
Date: Tue, 14 Dec 1999 09:25:33 -0800
From: <BLUENOVA@pocketmail.com>
Sue: The Real Story behind Quartzsite Arizona
is not the flea markets, or the gem shows, or the camel races
(yes, those happen during January in memory of a guy called Hi
Jolly, commissioned by the Army in the 1880s to raise and train
camels for military use. (Didn’t work out as ---the camels
couldn’t get along with the army mules...)
Mike: Hi Jollys' even got his very own tomb
sitting atop the local rendition of Boot Hill and resides smack
in the middle of town. The
pyramidal structure is composed of layer upon layer of all manner
of regional rock that dot the landscape.
And, perched on its pebbled peak, like some apparition
coming straight off the cover of a Phillip Morris pack of smokes,
is Joe Camel. Made
of solid brass that blazes in the desert sun, ya can't help but
fire up a cig in appreciation of the damn thing, nor ignore the
shivers coursing up one's spine as ya hear yourself say, "What
The Fuck Is THAT?"
Sue: The Real is the LTVA's run by volunteers
for the BLM. Translation
= Long Term Visitor Areas and Bureau of Land Management. It's what the majority of those hundreds
of thousands of RVers are doing here. The scope is simply mind-boggling and it's existence unknown
to those outside the Circle.
We heard vague mention of "coyote communities out
in the desert" as we talked to full timers.
When asked specifics, eyes would narrow and a lingering
grin would waft across countenances; the response would always
be, "You've never seen anything like it".
Once experienced, there is no other answer, because, really
and truly, you have NEVER seen anything like this.
(Continued)
Subject: Nova News #30
Date: Thu, 16 Dec 1999 12:21:10 -0800
From: <BLUENOVA@pocketmail.com>
M: We're sittin,' standin', climbin',
lookin' over the shoulders of the two guys installing the solar
equipment as I nub my way thru this pocket emailer. Some guy named Dick is called "the
solar man" and Dwayne, "the installer." Dick is one of those "home spun,
tell a little story about any and/or everything," sorta fella
and if I were gettin' 60 bucks an hour, I would too. But, I'm the dude that's shellin' it out and, gotta tell ya,
my patience grows a bit thinner every time he launches into another
tale. Susan, God Bless Her inquisitivity, is
in the process of suckin' his skull dry of every shard of solar
knowledge he might possess and, so, it seems like a better idea
for me to keep my mouth shut and let the clock tick.
Dwayne, is a Canadian
from B.C and says "aye" a lot.
I'm, of course, reminded of the flick "Fargo,"
and when ya put the two of these guys together I feel like I'm
being held for ransom (just like the story line) cause ol' Dwayne
is doin' a $50 clip per hour himself.
The both of them work very well together and consult between
themselves incessantly.
For example, I shudder whenever one looks at the other
(which they do a lot, btw) and say, "It's better to measure
twice and cut only once."
In theory this makes
a great deal of sense to me…my dilemma resides in the fact
that THEY BOTH wanna measure the Same Thing Twice…you do
the math. It doesn't
take a rocket scientist to hear the "ka ching, ka ching"
with each snap of the tape measure and realize that "Gettin'
off the Grid" is a pricey proposition, to say the least.
(Continued)
Subject: Nova News #36 (cont.)
Date: Mon, 27 Dec 1999 10:58:24 -0800
From: <BLUENOVA@pocketmail.com>
M: The Alamo Wildlife Refuge is
tucked deep. The
500+ acre, reservoir created, lake sits in a bowl with it's back
against a mountainous ridge that marches across the state and
hints at the higher elevations' crisp.
It's beautiful, got good fishin,' boondocker sites, a pay
phone, plus air that's clean and clear as a bell.
It's found at the end of a desolate 40 mile stretch cutting
thru a cactus strewn desert.
One isn't about to "just
happen' upon this place…ya gotta wanna go there.
There's a ranger station
here and a dozen or so RVers occupying all 4 areas that could,
if full, cater a few hundred. Sorta a pricey kinda place that'll give ya full hook up (electric)
for $15 per or dry camp for $10. It's obvious this place is a fisherman's paradise (bass/croppie)
and Susan’s bought herself a rod/reel to keep our cats,
Matty & Scout, in protein.
Additionally, there are herds of wild burro roaming this
basin and are, apparently, so numerous that, periodically, they’re
auctioned off to the public by the BLM.
Wild boar, waterfowl, fox, coyote, deer, elk and small
game abound.
Periodically, bullet
riddled signs may be found marking some washboard dirt road with
the word "Primitive." The one that caught our attention had
a hand scrawled placard hanging from a nail and read "Phish." Being from Vermont, we decided to
check it and see how our home state musicians were fairing this
far west. Ya can see for miles out here and across
the water, tucked high in a canyon, is a hermit’s homestead
we were to find out belonged to the "old man of the mountain,"
named Dave. We discovered
this byway of takin' the Primitive Road, which borders the lake's
eastern rim, and, risking kidney failure while driving it's rendition
of the great bumpity, came upon a hidden RV village called, Wayside.
Now, Wayside is of a place that is straight outta The Twilight
Zone
with a touch of Quentin Tarantino's, Dusk till Dawn tossed in for good measure...positively surrealistic...way, way
far out there. They've
got their own WWll diesel powered generator, a makeshift office
doing double duty as a beer bar and the residents aren’t
just passin' thru…they live there.
Ya can rent a spot for a couple bucks per day and a sign
warns that, what with the diesel breakin' down on occasion, the
amps can fluctuate between 0-50 and ya outta have a surge protector
in place to carry the load when it comes or, inadvertently, goes.
It’s got character, obviously, and our kinda place.
(Continued)
Subject: Nova News #43
Date: Wed, 5 Jan 2000 14:46:08 -0800
From: <BLUENOVA@pocketmail.com>
M: Having now seen the size of the
burros wandering across the countryside, I've been able to uncover
the root origins of the phrase, "Donkey Kong."
The beasts are huge.
Just this morning we were greeted with even larger piles
of mule droppings that were delivered within a few feet of our
humble encampment while we slept. We watched 3 of 'em feeding yesterday afternoon and promptly
named them Edgar, Rice and William…it seemed the witty thing
to do.
(Continued)
Subject: Nova News #48
Date: Sat, 15 Jan 2000 09:47:36 -0800
From: <BLUENOVA@pocketmail.com>
M:
A cacophony of coyote caressed the cactus with their corralling…yeah,
right. Not to mention the fact that I've really
been lookin' forward to writing this line, gotta tell ya, upon
hearing these howlers' howling, Matty & Scout got as nervous
as a pair of cats on a hot tin roof…with tar on it.
A couple packs of these wilded wailers moved into
the area early in the week and kitty curfew went immediately into
effect…daylight hours for truckin' about, from dusk till
dawn everybody stays put…period. Matty got over it quickly enough, yet Scout (heathen bitch
that she is} made with her, per normal, major attitude.
We counted over a dozen
individuals in the coyote pack making up the chorus and each evening,
toward sunset, they'd belt out their tunes with such Heart it
made ya wanna shout "All Fuckin' Right" just cause ya
got to feeling so good bout the whole thing. The coyotes have been huntin' down by the lake and workin'
the ravines that run in our back/front yard. While figurin' the angles, I struck upon the idea of protecting
the Girlies' territory with the illusion of a prickled pecker
the size of The Washington Monument.
Frankly, I think it mighta worked.
What I've been doin'
is this: We've saved one of those Super Big Gulp cups ya get at your
local 7/11 and been utilizing it lately as the community piss
jar. A 20 foot saguaro sits half way down the
slope and by standin' on top of the ridge line I've become proficient
at soaking the thing from top to bottom with a couple 44 oz. shots
per day. Obviously the concept is to get the packs
thinkin' that some massive, predatory dinosaur has moved into
this particular portion of the hood and best just stay away. After all, I figured, if I thought some
80 foot beast with a penis the size of a taxicab was liftin' his
leg and squirting from such dizzying' height as is suggested herein,
it'd make me "Go Whoa."
Me thinks it's done the same thing with the local coyotes…maybe…maybe
not…but it's become sorta fun and I figure to continue doin'
it just the same. Regardless,
it appears the packs have moved on or, at the least, stayin' outta
The Girlies Turf…we likes that…we likes that a lot.
This region of the high
desert has seen some pretty tough drought lately.
There's been no rain for nearly 2 years now and the lakes
down about 60 feet. The wildlife populations have taken a hit and a lot of what
was green has gone to dry bone brown.
The saguaros are thirsty too....ya can feel 'em.
In keeping with the idea of trying' to make a
sad song better, we've been hauling 5 gallon jugs of water to
our local pissin' post and given 'er a drink in appreciation. Yesterday the equivalent of 350 pounds
of H2O got feed this friend...and before rollin' south toward
Baja we'll do it again.
Ya gotta figure saguaro
are like the redwoods of the desert... long living and long memoried.
It's probably not such a good idea to piss on such eloquence
haphazardly or ignore the opportunity to give a little back to
another in need. Besides, it just makes ya feel good every
time another 5 gallon jug of "wa-wa" washes into the
earth beneath our friend's feet and subjectively hear 'er go "Ahhhhhh."
Should Saguaro be tuning forks that telephone such, than
each pole we pass leaves a fine "howdy due" in our waking...and
so it goes.
(Continued)
Subject: Nova News #55
Date: Sun, 23 Jan 2000 11:14:10 -0800
From: <BLUENOVA@pocketmail.com>
M: Whelp, "the best
laid plans of mice and men”...and things didn't quite go
according to plan. The
battery done went dead, as in "gone," before we even
hitched up and had to take an unexpected 80 mile Zuma ride. Half the run was spent carryin' an 850
crankin' amp replacement that's required to kick over this 460
cu. in. Ford named Thor.
Per normal, this cloud
had a silver lining because we got to meet the Park's Rangers
on a more personal, weirder than normal, basis. It's amazing all the shit guys can talk
about when a half dozen or so of them get together tryin' ta understand
an electrical problem with a old pickup truck...especially when
a fried battery has gotta be tracked.
Anyway, it turned into
a selenoid got fried and the bendix brushes bound up in the starter
kinda thing...with me underneath bouncin' banter, bustin' knuckles,
holdin' a flashlight in my teeth and dicovering everyone owns a Harley. Yep, it's a fact and I particularly like
the part where each guy knows his horse Is, in his mind, just
right fore their own style of ridin.'
It makes for a lotta individualism and community at the
same time...and that's a good thing.
Actually, it got me to hummin'
that tune by "America" where the lyrics get real
about the desert is ocean with it’s life underground.
The guys that work in
such out of the way places (like Lake Alamo) are doing' so because
they appreciate natural beauty...and, ain't no doubt about it,
this place is sweet. We
got to talkin' about where they go on vacation and what circuit
they'd make if they were self contained (as we are) and lookin'
for the Perfect Real eState. I established as parameters Woods, Water
and Scenic Splendor that'd carry us on a 5 month, 4 Park, Boondockin'
on BLM extravaganza...the suggestions have been HUGE...and the
places hard to find on retail maps.
We figure to scout 'em and share 'em with kin.
It makes perfect sense …it's a mission. :)
Currently, Mamasita’s
seasoning frying pans, I'm overlookin' the desert and a major
realization has occurred to me...It goes sum sumthin' like this:
I've had this atrocious
lookin' golf umbrella for years. The plastic handle has been molded in
the shape of a duck's head and I, for whatever weird reason, really
love the thing. Anyway,
when we were deciding (due to limited space) what stayed in storage
and what went on the road, I actually made the conscious choice
Mr. Duck simply must come along.
Frankly, this is/was somewhat of a mystery because I didn't
even know I liked this mallard that much...yet, I do and so its’
come along for the ride.
Anyway, our oven door
has never closed as tightly as it should and, left unattended,
leaks heat like a sieve. Mr. Duck has volunteered to serve as our wildlife wedge and
by proppin' this puppy from the floor to the oven's door, handles
the prob perfectly. Although
the system works well, the glass on the oven's door tosses enough
heat that Mr. D's done a bit of a melt and altered his persona
a tat. He's openly developed the curvatured characteristics of a Shuffle"
and his head, sorta, schwoops forward in a totally truckin,' nonchalant
manner. Kinda charming,
if ya know what I mean.
We've decided Mr. Duck's first name
must be Shuffle and, by natural extension, Me and Mamasita, The
Shufflers. Further,
and completely common sensical, since that's who we are, than
what were doing is "Shufflin’ along...singin' a song
...side by side." Thus, with the "who, what, where,
and when" remedied, it becomes even more glaringly apparent
things have a way of workin' out...don't they.
(Continued)
