Trying to see the landscape - while driving 60 mph

   WESTERN UTAH - The ride from Green Valley, Utah through the mountainous region on the way to Nevada is full of amazing geological formations.
     Just amazing.
     Equally amazing is that the State of Utah has dozens of scenic pullout areas - complete with primitive bathrooms,
     After trying to take photos though the windshield while catapulting down the highway, I surrendered and stopped to take in the beauty in real time.
     Breathtaking doesn't cover it.
     And yes, dragging The Red Writer I drive 60 mph on the highway... Saves a lot of gasoline.

   When you drop down out of the mountains, you hit several small towns, including Delta, Utah where Admiral Fox and I have stopped at a small RV park several times.
     This time though I was moving fast towards Ely, Nevada (where I spent last night). But I needed to stop for gasoline, food, ice (for the Yeti cooler!) and wine.
     As luck would have it, next to the only liquor store for probably 200+ miles was a food truck staffed by a Mexican family.
     And it was open! Woo-hoo!
   And just across the street was a large grocery store that - gasp! - actually sold blocks of ice. Blocks of ice are nearly as hard to find on the road as, well, wine in Utah. The block I purchased will get me all the way home to Point Richmond.

   I passed another cultural marker at the Utah-Nevada border that's a popular stop for people after crossing the extreme western Utah Desert - the Border Inn.
     The iconic business is a combination gas station, restaurant, bar, motel, casino and RV park.
     It also functions as a sort of social club for the relative handful of people who live in the high desert region around it. Lots of characters hang out at the bar.
     Because my gas tank was near the top, the wine and food lockers filled and a deadline to get to Ely to grab my RV space to park, I didn't stop in to chat with the locals this time. Next time I will time it better.
    But I did snap the photo below so anyone traveling in either direction will know what to look for.
     At 80 mph (the Utah speed limit) or 70 mph (California's legal marker) you can blow by the place pretty quickly.

The Border Inn

Leaving Green River - which could be renamed

   GREEN RIVER, Utah - The state park here is probably the cleanest and best kept of anyplace The Red Writer has landed since leaving Watkins Glen.
     The Green River, right now, is anything but green. Rains up in the mountains seem to have washed down enough silt to suggest renaming it Little Muddy.
     But as nice as the park has been there was one major, major disappointment.
    A fabulous Mexican food truck/restaurant a block away was closed. Again. When Admiral Fox and I came through in June it was closed, too... Santo Crappo. Mille fois merde!
     Still, I was able to put together a quick stir fry with provisions

already on board. Plus, the last of the wine I bought in Glenwood Springs - which the clerk said they called 'Liquid Crack' - made for a nice end-of-the-day cocktail.
     Off to Ely, Nevada for tonight's lodging. I had wanted to stay in a small RV park next to the Prospector Casino. But, alas, it was torn down this April to make way for a Holiday Inn Express.
No kidding, a Holiday Inn... Instead I'll be a little out of town and way from the gambling tables. Probably a really good thing.

A view from the campground

Homeward bound - when the rain stops anyway

Today's storm

   GLENWOOD SPRINGS, Colorado - The final few days of The Red Writer's trek from New York to Point Richmond got stalled this morning by a series of thunderstorms that have been pouring down impressive loads of rain.
     When you are sitting 10 feet from the rushing Colorado River, heavy rains are not particularly welcome or reassuring.
     But the forecast is for the storms to end in an hour or two, at which time the next port of call down Interstate 70 will be Green River State Park, a cool little spot I have wanted to check out for the last two years.
     The Glenwood Canyon Resort - where The Red Writer has been parked for two days - is a class A joint with good facilities and breathtaking campsites right along the river.
     Adm. Fox and I have stayed here several times. It's always enjoyable - more so in a trailer than tent camping.
    

     On our first visit here, we pitched a tent by the river.
     Unfortunately the restrooms and showers were on the road just above us, 60 steep steps above us. Making that trek in the middle of night, knowing there might be bears about, wasn't that much fun.
     Getting here on Labor Day was good timing. The resort was emptying out like baseball fans trying to avoid the traffic jam at a stadium parking lot.
     But it also meant that one of my favorite hangouts here - The No Name Bar - was closed. Apparently the staff had had quite enough after a long few weeks and Labor Day weekend crowds.

No service at the No Name Bar

     It sounds like the rain is slowing down, just small buckets now, time to check the radar again.
     By the way, in that radar shot above, I believe the pink-tinged images show snow at the higher elevations.
     Definitely time to get down the mountain.

Before the rains...

     

Tune suggestions for 'on-the-road' music list

   ASHLAND, Nebraska - The playlist for the next leg of the Red Writer's continued journey west seems incomplete with just 12 songs culled from my iPhone music library. Tomorrow the goal is to make it to the town of Ogallala, Nebraska home to one of the best Mexican restaurants ever.
      Ever.
     But after Nebraska, spotty FM (and AM) radio reception becomes the norm, especially given my boon-docking plans in Colorado.
     So far the list includes:

On The Road Again

Ballad of Thunder Road

Hot Rod Lincoln

Catch Us If You Can

Born To Be Wild

I Get Around

Leaving On a Jet Plane

Six Days On the Road

Ramblin' Man

Wagon Wheel

Rawhide

See You In September

     That last song goes out dedicated to Admiral Sylvia Fox, of course. I am on my way! Honest!
     Any suggestions for songs that will help me put the hammer down on the next 1,700 miles to touchdown in Point Richmond?

Weathering the storms amid big rigs and RVs

   ASHLAND, Nebraska - The run from Watkins Glen to this idyllic locale just over the Platte River from Omaha was faster than anticipated.
    But that stopped yesterday afternoon when I pulled into Eugene T. Mahoney State Park. I have visited this park several times in the last few years, either heading east or returning west. With the Red Writer teardrop, it's much more enjoyable. And I need a rest after driving too many hours in too short a time frame.

The Red Writer at rest in Nebraska

   Translation? I'll leave Saturday for either Scottsbluff, Neb. or to Minturn, Colo. Or maybe Sunday? Or Monday.
   ?Quien sabe?
   A few days in a nice creek side campsite should put my nerves back into their proper casings after living through twin thunderstorm-related events. If you're from the Midwest, they were just storms. To a Californian-New Yorker, a tad more.
   The first happened in Atkinson, Il.
   The lightning in the distance flashing out of low, the dark black clouds were spectacular and covered the horizon. Had I been sailing on the ocean, I would have turned and ran as fast as I could away from the storm.
   But Interstate Highways don't let you do that so easily.
   And so an hour after first seeing the storm I drove right into, I ended up pulling off the highway in a hasty search for high ground to avoid predicted flash flooding. The rain was coming down so fast visibility was near zero. The town streets were deserted, too...

   When the storm cleared it was off to the next town up a few miles the highway in search of a campground.
   The only one was on the banks of a river outside of town.
   Given that flash flood warnings, plus witnessing the devastation from flooding in Hector, NY, the choice was obvious.

   NO  (&(^^%)*))*Q% WAY!

   A few miles later the Red Writer crossed over the Mississippi into Iowa, where the Interstate RV Park beckoned.
   The park has full RV services and is tucked in snugly amid lots of commercial activity.
   The snug part proved to be really important.
   Just after the Red Writer as all hooked up and settled, another RV owner - who bore a strange resemblance to Mr. Magoo in looks and speech - knocked on the door and warned that a huge storm was headed our way in a half-hour packing 70 mph winds and torrential rains. He said many people were going to "shelter in place" in the building housing the bathrooms and showers.
   I was still trying to decide whether this was a red wine or white wine kind of storm when the wind and rain walloped the campground well ahead of schedule, trapping most people in RVs.

   Luckily, no RVs did a Dorothy, flying off to OZ. All stayed firmly on the ground, though the RV park was a swamp for hours.
   There's more rain in the forecast for the next week here, but no tormentas like the ones in these videos.
   None predicted anway.

On the road again - and changing time zones

   INDIAN CREEK, Ohio - The concept of an RV park right in a rest area along a turnpike is a good one. You pull in, hook up to power and have a safe, well-lighted place away from the diesel trucks and the car parking lots where people zip and out of the place all night.

     That said, it's still pretty noisy with the constant thrum of Interstate 90 in the background. But it was easy to pull in and should be easy to pull out as soon as this is posted.
     The Red Writer is starting Day 3 of my cross-country sojourn from Seneca Lake to San Francisco.
     And thanks to the diesel trucks that cranked up their engines at 6 a.m., I will be getting an early start on the day.
     Day one was a short hop from Watkins Glen (and Amanda Smith-Socaris' hospitality) to Lakewood, NY. There  I spent the afternoon and evening with lifelong friend Doug Hooper. My head is still spinning with all the memories our conversations turned up.
     Yesterday was a nearly 300-mile run from Lakewood to this rest stop, the last stop on the Ohio Turnpike before entering Indiana as I lurch towards the Chicago traffic miasma. I hope I can find the same interstate bypass as Admiral Fox and I took when we came east in June.

Indian Creek RV parking

     The hardest part of the trip so far - other than staying awake while driving mile after mile after mile - has been forcing myself to slow down and look at things along the way.
     When I stopped last night at 5 p.m. - way earlier than Adm. Fox and I generally would pull over on any of our usual road trips - I was rewarded by meeting some very interesting folks from New Hampshire, heading to Montana for a family wedding.
     We shared a glass of wine, good conversation and I suspect next summer we might rendezvous someplace in their home state of New Hampshire.

    It was a good reminder of the words I read on a stone placed near author Jack Kerouac's grave in Lowell, Mass. when I was on another road trip a few weeks ago visiting amigo Dan Sundquist and his wife Sarah in New Hampshire before catching up with and my two sisters, Evelyn and Anne.
     His words?
     The Road is Life.
     Thanks Jack...

Like Willie: 'I can't wait to get on the road again'

   VALOIS, NY - The days and nights here in the Finger Lakes since arriving in late June have been amazing. And a little exhausting. How much fun can you pack in?
     A lot, it seems.
     But since the weather turned from steamy humid and blistering heat to overcast and rain, Willie Nelson's refrain from "On The Road Again" is getting stuck in my head.
     I found myself - after a 5+mile hike early yesterday morning with amigo Harry Ellison - looking longingly at the road atlas (yes, I have a paper road atlas thank you very much). I started plotting a course across country with a dozen stops.
    So far...
    The lift-off for that trip is just short of three weeks from today, but I can hear the thrum of the tires already and Willie blasting out of the speakers.
    Three weeks can be an eternity or go by in a flash. Based on the weeks since Admiral Sylvia Fox and I arrived in late June, I'll put my bet on the time flashing by. She left three weeks ago to get back to cooler air in San Francisco.
     From what she has told me, she found it. Too much of it.
    And in about a week, I have a New Hampshire to Lowell, Mass to Woodmere, Long Island road trip planned.
   That will be sans the Red Writer trailer, however...I just can't imagine hauling the Red Writer on the Cross-Bronx Expressway or any of the Manhattan Bridges.

The artist as musician

    Yesterday I went to an artist's reception/exhibit at a shop called Hector Handmade, just a few miles up the road.
    I've been to hundreds of such arty soirees over the years but this one was exceptional. Really exceptional.
    It was partly because of the interesting art, but also because artist Nicole Costa is a musician, too. She is also a seamstress and probably a dozen other creative things based what people told me.
    She and a band called Mother Wort put on a rockin' concert while people oooohed and ahhhhed over her art, most of them sipping wine.
    Below is a short sample of their tunes...

A Sullivan family reunion in Naples - Naples, NY

   NAPLES, New York - The sign out front Saturday afternoon was a pretty good hint - provided you can read Celtic.
     So I was a little unsure I had landed at the right party/family reunion a few hours drive from where I left The Red Writer sitting snugly tucked up next to the Valois cottage where it has been for the last month. After all, it was an Irish family reunion in a place called Naples that sits in the middle of the New York town called Italy.
     Really.

If you see this sign, think 'Welcome'

     To clear up if I had the right spot, I asked a fellow getting out of his truck if I had landed at a Sullivan family soiree.
     Before he could answer I noted the bottle of Irish whiskey he was toting to bring in. I knew I had found the right spot, a beautiful hillside home where 40-50 people had already gathered and the party was in full swing
     I had been invited to the party by my cousin Monica Sullivan Smith, who, if I have it right, is my late mother Evelyn's second cousin. My maternal grandmother was a Sullivan and thus the connection.
     When I was growing up in Brooklyn, we made several forays to the Geneva, NY farm where Monica grew up with her family.
     Later when I was in my teens living at Lake Chautauqua a few hours drive away, Monica and her family would pile into their car and drive over to the lake where we had great parties and spent most of the day water skiing or doing some other aquatic activity.
     There was no waterskiing at the Naples house Saturday, though the pond and swimming pool looked inviting. A few young Sullivans found their way into the pool.
    

The Sullivan Clan first cousins

     At one point there was a group photo taken of all the first cousins some of whom dryly noted that there seemed to be fewer people getting in the group shot as the years roll by.
     No matter, it was the most cheery, liveliest and friendly party I've been to in a long, long time.
     My cousin Monica spends a lot of her time and energy tracing genealogical Sullivan records.
     A few years ago she even found the actual ancestral family farm in Ireland, the wellspring for the Sullivan clan in the Geneva, NY area.
     Nearly every time we get together, she has some information, token, or photo connecting my Fitzgerald family to the Sullivans.
     Saturday she presented me with a Christmas card from 1948 that my father and mother sent out.
     I am the squirt on my mother's lap, flanked by my sister Anne on my right. My late father (Anthony W. Fitzgerald) is the fellow with the then-stylish tie sitting next to my mom. The teenage boy who appears less than pleased to be photographed is my late brother Tony. 
     These kind of photos & mementos are priceless.
     If I had done nothing else in my time here at New York except go to the party, it would have been worth the cross-country journey.
     Of course, there have been plenty of other amazing things going on here also since Admiral Sylvia Fox and I arrived in late June. Perhaps most notable was the end of a nearly decade-long battle by citizen activists against a nasty propane gas storage facility. The damnable thing will not be built.
     My notebooks are full of stories, story ideas and things to chase down for future columns for the Finger Lakes Times. There's also a sketch outline for another novel that came to me in a dream.
     Really.
     There's still a lot more Finger Lakes time ahead, followed by a 3,000-plus mile return odyssey across America in August likely to spill over into September. But eventually The Red Writer will make it back home to its home port at the Brickyard Landing condo where Sylvia and I live in Point Richmond, Calif.
     When I returned from my sojourn last summer, Sylvia had posted a neatly lettered sign on the front door that said Welcome Home! I saved it. And it hangs on the wall in my office where I see it every time I walk in.
     Maybe this year she will post a sign that says Failte baile.
     I sure hope so...

Back at work in Nebraska, writing and researching

   ASHLAND, Nebraska - On our second day at the Eugene T. Mahoney State Park we settled in for a day of rest (in the sweltering heat) and also for me to do prep work for next week's Finger Lakes Times column.

Checking the wine list at Cellar 426 Wines and Vines

     The research for the piece - about the horrific Trumpian 'policy' of wresting children away from parents at the Mexican border - was sooooooo depressing that we decided to make a stop at Cellar 426 Wines & Vines facility just outside of town to soothe our nerves.
     I tried five different wines, all produced locally. And (drum roll please), they were all good.
Honestly. All good.
     Just as we got done with that errand, we had one of those amazing Midwest lightning storms roll through. We sat in The Red Writer trailer wondering when would happen should lightning decided to take a whack at us.

Making notes for a smokin' column

     In the middle of the storm son Dustin Fox called to wish me a happy father's day. And in that conversation he said something about how the trailer would act as a Faraday Cage or something should we be victims of a supercharged bolt of electricity from the sky.
     It was comforting, sort of. But it was even nicer when the storm moved off and the the temperature dropped 10-15 degrees.
     Another full day planned here tomorrow, starting with a morning spent drafting the FLT column for next Friday.
     It's past time to kick the four spineless GOP Congressmen representing the Finger Lakes squarely for their lack of morality, ethics, and basic sense of humanity.
     Cowards all they be. That's likely to be the nicest thing I say about them.

First heat, now humidity - welcome to the Midwest

   ASHLAND, Nebraska - After days of high-altitude camping in Colorado, Admiral Sylvia Fox and I dropped down to North Platte, Nebraska last night, then quickly scurried this morning for three hours to arrive at Eugene T. Mahoney State Park near Omaha.

The Red Writer at Eugene T. Mahoney State Park

     The heat has been about the same as the mountains.
     Hot, hot, and hotter, sprinkled with momentary lapses of slightly cooler air, followed by blast-furnaces doses of more temperature spikes.
     But when we got out of the Toyota Tundra at North Platte, we had something else to contend with: Humidity.
     It was like walking into a sauna - a really hot one.
     Today we are set up in a nice shady spot at this state park and plan a three-day stay. Or longer. The air conditioner is doing yeoman service. And unlike last night in North Platte, there is a nice breeze - even if warm.
     I visited this state park two years ago when I was driving my little red Nissan truck from NY to California.
     It's just as fabulous as I remember it. Hiking trails, small lakes, the Platte River, a fabulous aerospace museum within walking distance and a very neat town just four miles away
     Now if I could just breathe a little easier. Humidity and I have never been close friends.
     On our way into the lodge an hour ago (where this is being written), we got a close up look at the new Airstream trailer design. Several people who have come to take a peek at our T@B trailer have mentioned they were debating between getting a new Airstream like this and a T@B.
     It's very space-age but I think I'll stick with The Red Writer.

Not your father's Airstream trailer

The pressing need to break out my camera more

   NORTH PLATTE, Nebraska - Thank God Admiral Sylvia Fox keeps her cell phone camera on ready alert all the time.

Father and son (photo by Sylvia Fox)

     Whenever I go to write one of these missives, I almost always ask if she has a photo of the event, incident, animal, person or place to illustrate my point.
     Case in point, a great series of visits with oldest son Jason Fitzgerald, now a resident of Minturn,
Colorado and still a girls volleyball coach at Battle Mountain High School in Edwards. We had a great visit one evening, followed by a trip to nearby Glenwood Springs the next morning.
     Then two days ago we got together in Minturn, walking the length of the town, even washing The Red Writer trailer at at car wash.
   How many photos did I take? One or two. How many of son Jason? You guessed it.

The Barford fire crew (Photo by Sylvia Fox)

     The same thing happened when we visited Hector amigos Ann and Paul Barford at their fabulous home in Golden Colorado. We had great shots of the firefighters who had tamped out a blaze in an adjacent forest-park.
     But Ann and Paul? You guessed it again.
   I did pull out my big-gun camera today when we hiked through Chief Hosa Park to check on a herd of bison.
     No joy on finding the huge mammals, but lots of good scenics and we spotted a cigarette butt obviously stamped out on right on a pile of dry pine needles -  in the middle of the park.
     Santo Crappo! The idiot that did that could have ignited a firestorm like the one that decimated Santa Rosa last year.
     The photo, sadly, is just a damned cigarette butt on the ground, hardly worth printing.

Meeting a real hero and spotting a real Dog

   GLENWOOD SPRINGS, Colorado - Our overnight in the Glenwood Canyon Resort, about 10 feet from the Colorado River, was as hospitably cool as Moab was hot.
     We even needed blankets. Imagine.

Eric Thompson - also know as E.T.

     And in the early part of the morning, Admiral Fox and I had a conversation with a fellow named Eric Thompson - who goes by the sobriquet E.T. He is disabled a fellow who pilots and builds the most amazing equipment to give persons with challenges access to whitewater rafting and other adventures.
     He will be part of an upcoming Finger Lakes Times column - and perhaps even a magazine piece someday soon.
     E.T. is traveling here and there all around the nation spreading the good word about accessibility and giving demonstrations. Check out his Facebook website HERE.
    The guy is a real hero.
 After lunch, while Admiral Fox and I were standing on the sidewalk outside the Slope and Hatch restaurant, (great tacos!) we saw a fellow move quickly out of an SUV and duck into a doorway.
     He looked vaguely familiar with a wild mane of bleached blonde hair. But he  at least a decade older than the photo of him posted below.
     The two young women we were chatting with said yes, it was in fact Duane Chapman, the star of Dog the Bounty Hunter.
     When one of the women with us tried to grab a cell phone photo of him walking in, Dog's guard dog female friend started shouting "No photos, show some respect."
     Honestly. She said that:  "Show some respect."

The Dog from a few years ago

  That left me speechless momentarily. Then I said, "Hey! We're journalists..." But by then the Dog's dog was already piling into the SUV to move it.
     Yup, she had parked illegally.
     We haven't set a departure day from Glenwood Springs yet for The Red Writer trailer. Too nice a place, too much to explore.
     And who knows? If Dog the Bounty Hunter hangs his handcuffs here, who else might we run into?
     Besides E.T., of course, the real hero we met this morning.

Fallon-Austin-Delta-Moab and the Colorado river

   GLENWOOD SPRINGS, Colorado - Admiral Fox and I didn't make it to Bears Ears National Monument after all.

And 'freaking hot' barely covers it

     And we now have a first-hand knowledge of what the expression 'blistering heat' means. Consider me blistered.
     But first...
     We spent an uneventful evening at the Austin, Nevada RV park Wednesday night, a clean, well-lighted place owned and operated by a local church.
     It was a quiet as a nearby graveyard, as was most of Austin. (Note to campers: When you arrive mid-afternoon at a town like Austin, get out and see what there is to see right away.)
     By 5 p.m., most of the sidewalks were rolled up tight except for a couple of restaurant-bars.
     But if you want to pick up an inexpensive house, Austin might be the place. There were a dozen vacant houses, some with Realtor signs out front. Others sported trees growing through broken windows. Admiral Fox was not impressed with any of my potential dream houses.

Lawn mower and weed eater not inlcuded in price

     We barreled out of Austin early in the morning, landing in Delta, Utah at an RV park where we stopped last year. It was a quiet interlude that included an all important domestic chore - laundry. Refreshed and clean Saturday, we barrelled on with a pit stop in Ely, Nevada for gasoline and supplies, and then pushed on to our goal Moab, Utah.
     That's where the blisters of blistering heat smacked us right across the forehead and everyplace else.
     It was 103 when we arrived, humidity in the low single digits, and wind.Wind! Gusts up to 30+ mph.

Three campers, three air conditioners that Moab's heat defeated

     It was so hot, the air conditioner in The Red Writer went on strike. I was distressed until this morning when both my RV park neighbors confided that the AC units on their 40+ foot motorhomes also quit.
     I'm pretty sure I was dehydrated. My usual swill-beer-to-keep liquids up strategy failed miserably.
     But the story has a happy ending.
     After considering that we had been driving fairly relentlessly six days, often buffeted by high winds on the highway (and in the campgrounds) and were being slowly baked in extreme heat, we hightailed from Moab to Glenwood Springs where we have locked in for at least three days of camping 10 feet from the Colorado River.
     Ten feet, no kidding. And the temperatures are in the high 80s in the daytime, 60s at night. Pretty close to perfect.
     Admiral Fox says she might not leave this campground until the first snow.
     I think she's kidding.
     But I don't like the way she is studying the schedule of exercise classes set for the rest of the summer in downtown Glenwood Springs.
     More tomorrow after she goes to town to check out the schedule for the hot springs, too. 
 

Even the grocery stores in Nevada give you a chance to hit the jackpot

For sale at a Moab winery - perfect for a Finger Lakes musician

A soft landing in Fallon, NV - except for the beds

   FALLON, Nevada - The drive piloting The Red Writer from Sacramento was remarkable. You see a so much more going 60 mph - or slower. My new driving glasses might be part of the reason, too.
     The slo-mo trek also yielded 13.5 mpg on the leg from Sacramento to Applegate (CA) and 14.5 from there to Fallon. And gas prices? $3.19 in Nevada.
     After one quite long-in-the-tooth RV park turned us away because they only rent by the month, we soldiered on another 20 miles where we found a nice park with cable TV, ice cold Corona beer and clean rest rooms and showers.

Home sweet home in Fallon...

     We got set up quickly, a good thing because a wind storm roared through at cocktail hour, spreading dust and cottonwood debris in every direction. But the cable TV gave us a chance to watch the Golden State Warrior's win.
     It was all going along swimmingly, as the British sometimes say, until we crawled into the bed to sleep.
     Our two previous overnights had prepared us for less-than-first-class comfort while sleeping. But most likely our sore backs this morning were more sore when we looked ahead to three weeks of overnights on thin inflatable mattresses.
     At our next stop - possibly Ely, Nevada - my knife is already sharpened to cut up some foam.
     Adm. Fox probably will no doubt have a lot more to say on the lumpy-bed topic on her travelblog about the trip: Never Too Old...
     Check it out...

No lack of things to buy...

Finally out of space dock and on our way East

   SACRAMENTO, Calif. - The expression "a journey of 1,000 miles begins with one step" was on my mind Monday when Adm. Fox and I rolled out of Point Richmond at 2:43 p.m. and hit Interstate 80 for points east.
     From the dateline, you'll notice the point where we landed was Sacramento where we are staying  at the home of Pam DiTomasso and Steve Lovotti, good friends for decades.
     There was a moment Monday when we considered simply waiting one more day before catapulting off on this trip. But we persisted.

The Red Writer at rest in from of Pam and Steve's house in Sacramento

     Ultimately, we were really glad we did. Daughter Anne Allen, granddaughters Sami and Kami Allen, and amigos Jen and Scott Noble all came to the house for a visit and to celebrate our launch. Great fun all around.
     
     The early stages of voyages like this always have their pitfalls.
     First, I neglected to sufficiently crank up the jack stand on the front of The Red Writer trailer. I was reminded of my error by a steep dip in the driveway right in front of our condo accompanied by a horrible scraping sound of metal-on-concrete.

One helluva speed bump stole the cap

     Second, in taking some familiar streets in the Fabulous 40s in Sacramento, I hit two speed bumps at a velocity waaaaaay beyond what's reasonable for a full-size Tundra pickup dragging a 15-foot trailer.
     When The Red Writer returned to Earth  from a big bounce, the plastic cap on the outside of the black water drain came off. The only evidence it ever existed is the safety cord hanging sadly.
     A Camping World store is about 18 miles from here and no doubt has a shelf full of replacements. I expect to buy a couple of spares in case I miss seeing the speed bump signs again.
     Those speed bumps also wreaked havoc on the interior of the trailer, sending the neatly folded bedding and cushions into such a melange it looked like someone had had a pillow fight.
     After Monday's pell-mell rush to get out of Point Richmond, the Admiral and I decided we will take today to regroup, repack, relax and rewind. I haven't been swimming in the Lovotti pool in years. We will be able to have a nice dinner with Pam and Steve. And a new blog by Sylvia (under construction at the moment) will be made ready for prime time.

Repacking the back of the Tundra is high on the priority list

     Moab and the Bears Ears National Monument lie ahead on the travel agenda along with stops in Santa Fe and ultimately, of course, Seneca Lake.

When Bears Ears beckons, time to listen

   POINT RICHMOND, Calif. - The U.S. road atlas (large print edition, of course) is a fixture in the living room, along with several note pads with ideas of places to visit - and linger - on The Red Writer's travels to the East in a few weeks.
     Jaysus! A few weeks? Time to get cracking on getting everything ready.
    High on that list is the Bears Ears National Monument and that section of Utah including Moab and Cedar Mesa.
    Admiral Fox did some archeological work at Cedar Mesa in another life.

Fox Marine custom solar
panel installation

    Bears Ears caught my attention when it came into the crosshairs of Donald Trump, mostly because former President Barack Obama was the one who gave Bears Ears its official designation. OH! And because some folks in the oil, gas and mining industries think it might be swell to get in there and do a little industrializing. Maybe a lot of industrializing.
    But at least for now, the millions of acres are ready for vacationistas to explore the whole place.
    And The Red Writer will be there - for a bit anyway.

Not elegant, but it works

    As we dream of desert landscapes and starry nights sans light pollution, we have added a few items to the gear list of The Red Writer: solar power, a tabletop griddle, a voltmeter to check the battery, two incredibly comfortable REI lawn chairs and many other smaller items. Adm. Fox nearly wore out several chairs at REI before deciding on hers. Plans (ha, plans!) are to leave the first week in June and be in New York by the end of the month.
    Unless we get lost in Bears Ears...