Tag Archives: adventure

Camino.

When I left Austin Nevada early the next morning not much was moving in the dead or dying town. Just a few tractor trailers rumbling through and not stopping. I stopped at the newish gas station, the one at the west end of town, the one that the little woman at The Owl Club swore she would never go to because it was owned by her ex and she was damned if she’d give HIM any of her money, and got a cup of coffee that I felt just a little guilty about.

I was headed to Camino California, about 300 some odd miles and five hours away and home to Sand Flats Campground in the Eldorado National Forest among other things. I’d found Sand Flats using ChatGPT, something I’d started using after my little sister told me about using it way back Purcellville VA. And it works, so maybe old dogs can be taught new tricks.

Back on Route 50 I absorbed the loneliness and the vastness and the emptiness and just cruised along thinking of nothing and no one. The sky was an unchanging blue, the land an unchanging brown, and the road an unchanging sunburnt black macadam and on and on it rolled and so did I.

Along the way, about sixty miles west of Austin I passed through Middlegate Nevada, the even smaller, even more dead town that Dan the bartender had started walking from before being picked up by the owner of The Owl Club and having his life changed. Sixty miles he was prepared to walk through this nothingness in the hopes that Austin would be better than Middlegate. You gotta admire that.

Another fifty or sixty miles and I got to Fallon Nevada with all of the chain restaurants and gas stations that you find everywhere and anywhere in America and stopped at the Walmart to get some groceries. Say what you will, sometimes a Walmart can seem like an oasis, you know?

It was when I passed into California that Kimi (my gps) and me started to have a problem with one another. All across America Kimi had been trying to get me onto the shortest route between places instead of Route 50 but it wasn’t until we were getting close to Camino that it became an issue.

I was sure that Kimi was set on taking me off of 50 and onto a better route to the Sand Flats campground so I ignored her pleas to take the next exit and turn around again and again. I was positive that Camino was west of Placerville and so I cursed Kimi saying fuck you, we’re not going that way.

28 miles later I saw a sign for Placerville.

I took the next exit that Kimi suggested and pulled onto the shoulder to look at my map. I’d been wrong all along. Camino was east of Placerville, not west. I apologized to Kimi but she just gave me the gps finger and told me to turn around and bend over, she was going to drive for awhile.

So I did and we backtracked the 28 miles to Camino and the original exit that Kimi had told me to take and we climbed yet ANOTHER twisty, hairpin turney, guardrail-less, mountain road to an entrance to Eldorado National Park that was chained, locked, and gated closed. I actually thought about just camping right there. Instead I got out and peed on the gate and then searched my iPhone for a motel close by.

There were a couple in Camino, back down the scary mountain road so I headed back. Along the way I saw what I had thought was some new construction on my way up. But it had a couple of cars and a Ranger’s truck in front of it so I pulled in, and as I did the Park Ranger was walking out with his lunch and I asked him if it was open and he said yes, it had just opened the day before and I was in luck because Eldorado wouldn’t open until the next day.

And, boy howdy, was I ever. Maybe peeing on the gate helped.

The lonely road.

Nevada bills its segment of Route 50 as The Loneliest Road in America. A fairly bold statement, but Nevada may be right. Route 50 through the state is certainly lonely and a part of me wonders why, in this day and age, more Americans aren’t crowding into the state and onto Route 50 to experience the novelty of the loneliness, only to be left sitting in the bogged down barely moving traffic wondering where the lonely road is or was.

But for whatever reason they don’t and I’m left alone hurtling down the road at 60 or 70 miles an hour watching as the faraway mountains slowly, oh sooooo verrrry slooooowwwly, creep towards me when a second thought crowds out the first and I wonder what it must of been like for the first pioneers to WALK across this immense flatness.

And I think I would have lost my mind.

I’ve booked a room at The Cozy Mountain Motel in Austin Nevada for the night because it’s gonna be too cold to camp again and after driving down a steep, scary, guardrail-less mountain road (yes, I finally got to the damn distant mountains) I come into the little town of Austin. It’s early afternoon and I’m hungry. All I’ve eaten all day are some cashews and tangerine slices and as I drive I see only a couple possibilities for food- on the right is a bar/restaurant, at the west end of Austin is a gas station, and The Owl Club.

I need gas and ice so I check out the gas station first. Nothing. Just the normal junk food crap you find in any gas station anywhere in America. I gas up, get ice, and go to The Cozy Mountain Motel to check in and then I walk up the street to the bar/restaurant I saw coming in and when I get there I see that it’s been closed by order of the fire marshal.

That leaves The Owl Club.

When I walk in the guy behind the bar looks a little surprised that anyone came in, especially a stranger. There’s no one else in the place and as I sit, I ask for a beer and maybe a menu? Now, he really looks uncomfortable. He hands me a can of beer and tells me that if I want something to eat it’ll take about twenty minutes for the fryer to heat up and I say, well what if I don’t want anything fried, and he says that the only things on the menu are pizza and french fries. And I would have to buy a whole pizza so I tell him not to bother, I’ll just drink my beer and he looks relieved.

And that’s the beginning to one of the most interesting afternoons of my trip.

During the course of the next few hours I’ll learn that-

-Dan (I never did ask his name so let’s call him Dan) has only been the bartender for about a week. He’d been picked up on Route 50 by the The Owl Club owner as he was walking to Austin from the next town down the road (about 30 miles away) and during the ride he and The Owl Club owner strike a deal whereby Dan will work for tips and keep the door open while the owner is working his day job and in return Dan gets a room over the bar

-that everything, and I mean everything, in the bar is for sale- clothes, pictures, books, typewriters, bikes, shoes-it’s like a bar inside a yard sale

-that Dan is patiently tracing a picture of a church

-that the first “Nickel with a Pickle back” is free to new customers. When a second patron comes in, a very big, very jiggly woman and orders a Mountain Dew and a shot of Tequila, Dan remembers the free drink offer and since he and the very big, very jiggly woman are going to have one, he pours three

-that a “Nickel with a Pickle back” is a $5 shot of whiskey followed by a shot of pickle juice and that it must be an acquired taste

-that there are only about 80 people still living in Austin. Unless you count the 20 or so ranchers who come into town to pick up their mail- this from the third patron to come in, a much smaller woman clutching her four dollars for her nightly beer

-that aren’t any jobs really and that the closest grocery store is over a hundred miles away

-that even with all of this these people are happy

I shore ain’t in Kansas no mo.

At 11,312 feet above sea level Monarch Mountain Pass on Route 50 is one of the most dangerous roads in America.

I did not know this when I drove it, but I did know that it was an awfully curvy, awfully high, and awfully spectacularly beautiful road to drive.

As I summited the Pass, I began to suspect something might be important about this stretch of Route 50 when I saw people taking pictures of one another in front of the Monarch Mountain Pass sign at the summit.

That suspicion grew towards certainty when, about a mile down from the summit, I passed an upside down tractor trailer that had flipped over taking the left hand curve too fast and had slid a short way down the embankment.

The certainty became conviction when I googled it and watched a YouTube video about Monarch Pass, but by then I was safely down and off the mountain and in a motel for the night because it was forecast to be too cold to camp.

I spent two nights in Colorado.

The first was in La Junta at the very first KOA campground I’ve ever been in and, like the first of anything, will probably be the most memorable. As I was checking in, I was noticing a lot of tarantula-themed merchandise for sale. There was even a large rock paperweight with a painting of a tarantula on it on the counter and when I asked the girl about it, she told me that every September there is a tarantula festival in La Junta because the tarantulas totter into town to mate.

My second night was in Montrose at the Minecart Motor Lodge. I had called earlier in the day when I’d stopped for gas because Mr. ChatGPT told me it got great reviews and the price wasn’t too bad. So I booked it. But as I drove into Montrose I passed a couple of motels that looked really nice and I hoped that Minecart Motor Lodge would look as nice.

It didn’t. In fact, as I drove by it, it looked like the kinda place that might rent rooms by the hour. I even tried to weasel out of the reservation so that I could stay in one of the other, nicer-looking motels.

But I couldn’t and I didn’t and it turns out I was wrong. Come to find out, the Minecart Motor Lodge has new owners and they are renovating the motel from the rooms out. The rooms are really nice. Simple, but really nice. And they don’t rent by the hour.

So Colorado gave me a spectacularly dangerous road to drive, my first KOA experience, and a reminder NOT to judge a book (or a place) by it’s cover.

Thanks, Colorado.

Rosebud.

When I left Lakeside RV campground the next morning the skies were cloudy and the wind was picking up. I stopped for gas and coffee on SR 130 before picking up 50 West. As soon as I turned onto 50 the clouds had thickened and darkened and bolts of lightning were beginning to flash all over on the horizon.

The wind strengthened, the lightning got crazier and off to my right I could see an especially dark cloud that seemed to be trying to dip and become a funnel(?). I sped up, which is actually kind of useless and funny give the immensity of a storm over something as flat as Illinois, but I kept checking the progress of the storm and my own comparatively minuscule progress west on 50.

Ultimately, however, nothing happened except that Turtle and me got pelted with a helluva thunderstorm. After the storm and I passed one another, I saw a Walmart (which are like rashes) and I stopped to pick up a couple of things.

And then it was back onto 50 and out of Illinois and into Missouri- which would prove to be the best and the worst of my trip so far.

(Quick note: on the map it looks like Route 50 takes you through St. Louis and I was kinda looking forward to it since I’ve never been there but instead of taking me through the city (like it does in Cincinnati and Washington) 50 joins up with the beltway around the city so I never saw much of St. Louis)

Anyway. Back to the best and the worst.

THE BEST- Hands down it is Rosebud. It’s a quaint, cute little town between slow down and resume speed where it seems as if the people there are born there, raised there, go to school there, get married to their high school sweethearts there, have kids there, and die there.

I stopped at The Rosebud General Store because they were selling gas for $4.09/gal! As I was filling my tank with relatively inexpensive fuel I saw, on the gas pump, a hand lettered little sign saying free water with a gas purchase. So after I filled up I went inside to see if it was true and the cute little girl at the register said- absolutely and gestured to her right where back near a cooler another cute little girl was holding out an ice cold bottled water.

Cheap gas and a cute little girl handing me an ice cold bottle of water. Ah, Rosebud, you stole my heart.

THE WORST- Sedalia. I would be stopping for the night in Sedalia. I had chosen Sedalia because there was a State Park campground at the Missouri State fairgrounds. The Missouri State fair wasn’t until August so I figured it would be nice and quiet. And it was. Too much so. Once I finally found it.

When you come into Sedalia, it’s pretty much like a lot of little towns so I was looking forward to camping for the night. But then you get into the five mile stretch of Route 50 closest to the fairgrounds and it is five miles of the worst that America has to offer. It is chain store, food chain, retail run amuck and awry. It is all paved and curbed and billboarded and the few little hopeful islands of grass that somehow remain just look sad.

And then I missed my turn. The only sign I saw was for State Fairgrounds Community College so I’m thinking I don’t want to go there and it took me six miles out of town to decide that it probably was what I wanted and turn around.

I had been expecting a State campground near the fairgrounds. Instead, it’s a campground ON the fairgrounds. I drove into a gate directing me to the campground and it was like driving into an enormous drive-in movie theater. Just row after row after row of hookups in this big field. No camp store. No facilities. No ice. No nothing. Just a big field with maybe a half dozen RV’s sitting parked in the hot, humid sun.

I pulled into a site and sat and thought for a minute and said- fuck this. I pulled up my search for campgrounds in the area and found Countryside RV close by and figured it’s got to be better than this. And it was. Just barely.

Located behind an industrial fencing company and some kind of welding shop, Countryside has about thirty sites most of have permanent campers on them. It also has the most disgusting bathroom and showers I’ve ever seen. But I paid my $40 fee for the night, went back out to get ice at a gas station with bars over the tiny windows and door and settled in with the flies for the night.

I was never so happy to leave.

Crossroads no more.

When I crossed into Indiana I noticed that the state’s welcome had changed. No longer was Indiana the Crossroads of America, it is now the More to Discover state which has apparently drawn the the ire of a number of it’s citizens. They don’t like it. And I don’t blame them, but, then again, I don’t live there.

Nor was I even in Indiana long enought to discover much of anything. It only takes about three hours to cross the state from east to west so about the only thing I discovered in Indiana was that the state is home to a shit ton of yard sales- at least along Route 50.

It seemed like every five or ten miles I was passing another yard sale. And these aren’t just little card table affairs with Sis and Mom or Junior and Dad trying to sell the stuff they no longer want but can’t bring themselves to throw away figuring that “well hell, for a dollar, someone’s gonna want this”.

Nor are these the quiet little yard sales you see in a neighbors driveway on a quiet weekend morning.

These are sprawling affairs of compulsive buying running right up to within twenty feet of Route 50 showcasing (and selling) everything imagineable. Trinkets, jewelry, arts and crafts, books, clothes, shoes, pots and pans and dishes, lawn mowers and weed wackers, sometimes a car or a motorcycle. I even saw a boat and an RV at one yard sale as I passed by.

A few even looked interesting enough to entice me to stop and shop. But I needed to get to Illinois and my campground for the night so I tucked my compulsive buyer and buyers remorse away and drove on.

One of the first things you notice when you cross the border into Illinois is that also cross from the Eastern to the Central Time Zone and all your electronics turn back the pages of time one hour so you get to re-live that hour again. Which begs the question- if you could travel west fast enough to keep re-doing that same hour, would you live forever?

I pondered this for the hour or so until I arrived at Lakeside RV in Olney, Illinois and met the owner Jerry. As Jerry said- Lakeside RV is, or has become, more of a fish camp than an RV campground. And it shows. Most of the RV’s there aren’t going anywhere anytime soon, if ever. The owners have built decks onto them, roofs and additons. It’s more of a place that the owners come to on weekends to fish and drink and tell stories about the one that got away.

But Jerry still keeps a couple of transient spots, so I was home for the night.

A change in the plan. Already.

So this is what happened.

As I mentioned in my previous post the plan was to build a little camper on the bed of my 1989 F350 for my cross country trip.

Well, that’s changed.

On Tuesday morning I was at Pungo 4X4. I needed three new tires, two of which were the steers. Everything went well and I was able to make an appointment for Wednesday at Bert’s Alignment to get my new steers aligned so that they wouldn’t wear all cock-eyed the way the old ones had.

On Wednesday morning I get to Bert’s and as I was getting out of my truck I smell gas. I look back to where the gas tank filler necks are and sure enough gas is pouring out of the front tank filler. AGAIN.

This has been an ongoing problem (among others) with my truck for the last two years. Instead of one gas tank my truck has two 19 gallon tanks, a sending pump in each tank, a delivery pump somewhere or other, and a fuel switch that is supposedly, somewhat, sometimes, controlled by a switch on my dashboard that is supposed to let me decide which tank I want to use.

Any and all of these components can fail (and have) or operate erratically (and do).

I watched the fuel flowing out of my front tank down the side of my truck for a moment before switching over to the other tank and calling Miss Carol to let her know there’d be another repair bill coming up.

To say she wasn’t too happy would be like saying I don’t like beets (I hate beets) and after venting her frustration in me, my truck, our marriage, and her life for having married someone like me with a truck like mine, she asked me if I had any idea how much we’d spent in repairs in 2025.

And, of course, I didn’t.

But over the course of the next two days I found out and added it all up. Then I got on the Ford website and “built” a replacement F350 to get some idea of what the truck payments would be. And you know what? The annual truck payments for a 2026 were not terribly different from the repair bills on my 1989.

So I’m still doing my cross country trip, and I’m still gonna build a little camper on the back but, instead of on an 1989 F350, it’s gonna be on a 2026 F350.