Itinerant Air-Cooled Greetings From Utahaboob
Posted: Thu Jun 19, 2014 8:45 am
This photograph was taken only twelve hours after the fierce winds had died down from the day before. "Yay, no more wind" (ha). I believe this is the rock for which the town "Ship Rock" was named.
I was heading west on NM 162 I think it was, on my way to the Brandt appointment in Bluff Utah (home of the rock campsite that had yielded such dramatic photographs of rainbows and Creation and Chloe).
Not ten minutes after this was taken, I was enveloped in a nasty gravel-spewing blast of wind:
I could see clouds of brown billowing from the southwest, and there was no way I was going to allow the BobD to take another El Paso sandblasting, no way. There's a road! 491 north! We're taking it. Now the wind is at my back. If I go 50 mph or above, there is no wind. If I go 40, clouds of dust sweep in front of me. Good Lord. Here is a photograph with reduced gamma so you can see what I had just narrowly escaped, that is dirt and sand down there at the lower left, the Ship Rock is on the right:
Here is where I ended up. Calm, only breezy, and much appreciated grass to hold down the howling choking sand and dust:
Look! 96,000 miles. So sorry to watch that odometer spin around like the price at the gas pump, but heck, I escaped the wind at least. Too bad I didn't look at the gas gauge:
Green grass now, trees, too, Far off snow-capped mountains:
Saw a grey stripe in my Rand McNalley map that suggests I can get to Utah if I take a left at the Cortez Airport. Grey stripes are described as "secondary roads". Well, I took it. Enjoyed the green grass and the green trees and the absence of blowing gravel and dust, but a headwind is kicking up. This road is up and down and left and right and it leads promisingly to nowhere. Now I look at the gas gauge. Oy. We are just shy of diving into the red. I am now 28 miles west of Cortez and look it:
The wind and the sand have found me. There is no escape. This is a dead-on headwind that just grabs the car. I am out of the green, no more trees, just little clots of browning grass, and the sky is a portent of what I will be eating and breathing and wearing for the next three days:
I am declutching and killing the engine on every down hill, driving only in the 35-40 mph band in 4th gear to reduce the drag of the wind. Watching the gas gauge, the rule is that I get only half of the remaining fuel to go west. If I do not find a gas station, I have to turn around and go back to Cortez with at least a tailwind to help. The wind is gusty and annoying, the dashboard has a layer of dirt as do the fresh air vents. Yuck. Finally, hit an intersection that says "Bluff" that way and "Aneth" this way, and there is a gas station. Got about 22 mpg into the headwind at 40 mph.
"Oh, yeah, you are in Utah now, we are Utah here, you know that there is a wind warning, right?"
"Oh, is it windy?"
Stopped at a river for "lunch" where there were trees that could possibly be a "wind break". Nestled in the trees, I was hopeful that there might be some respite. There was. Enough respite from the wind that the biting flies actually had a chance to land . . . a beautiful little skinny female dog came sidling up to me. Uh oh. A moment where I have to guess if this is Jesus Himself testing me. Do I adopt the dog and take her with me for the next nine years? She is looking at me expectantly but with a deferential supplicative hopefulness.
"If you are Jesus Christ testing me, let me tell you that I likely won't Do The Right Thing right this minute, right this minute in fact, I am pissed at Your Father for this incessant wind." She was unimpressed with words, she was far more interested in my lunch. I shared it with her. She enjoyed the string cheese and looked dementedly silly chowing down on Santitos chips, passed on the broccoli. I gave her a bowl of water (- airkooledchris, yet another use for your magnetic dish) and at least determined that was she was not terribly thirsty. After a couple more fly chomps, I told her, "I'm outta here, good luck." Conscience-stricken by how shallow I really am ( We sent you to Eternal Hell because you turned your back on JesusLittleDog ), I spy in the rear view mirror the little dog trotting after me . . . with three of her little friends. Brandt told me later that these are "reservation dogs" that manage to manage (better than I seem to be doing in this wind).
Made it to the rock campsite, the serene seat of Glorious Creation last year is the Final Howling Armageddon this time:
Every photograph I took was battling a wind that threatened to knock me over. I am testy and pouting, "I can't get anything done in this wind." The big gusts throw rocks at the BobD. It pains me in the heart what an idiot I am, driving this beautiful example of a fine car into this hateful albeit lovely Mars Simulator:
The wind is a gusty howling earful and mouthful of dirt, and it will not let up in the slightest. Where is it going? Where did it come from? I get into the car and turn it around to face the wind (it is rated to handle a steady 75 mph wind on the highway, I reckon) just in case a big gust wants to blow it off the rock. The car is rocking like we are driving on a pitchy road. The sound through the mirrors and antenna does not let up for the entire night. I go for a frisky King Lear Swearing Diatribe photoshoot down the road. I shall not waste your reading time about my "discussion" with the Big Creator Guy regarding His errors of how to make a decent climate on Planet Earth.
A VW Bus On Mars:
In the morning, I awake to only gusty puffs, no more howls.
The sliding door grates. The engine hatch grits. The driver's side window sounds like gravel is in the felt channel. Everything in the car is contaminated by dirt. I am darkly furious with Life Itself and Me Too. My Tide/Chlorox bath is interrupted by a runner, a runner! in goggles wrapped in a white bathrobe who ran up the two mile dirt path, apparently ran past little bald King Lear's morning toiletries, and ran back to tell me, "I don't miss my morning run, but the wind isn't helping." Made me feel like a darkly furious pansy, but I bet he gets to take a SHOWER when he gets HOME.
I love this infuriating old Earth and my stupid little life on it, but still complain bitterly. Marvelling at the wide scope of different views of the same location, I cannot believe my rock camp site could host such different experiences as 2013 and 2014:
2013
2014
I was heading west on NM 162 I think it was, on my way to the Brandt appointment in Bluff Utah (home of the rock campsite that had yielded such dramatic photographs of rainbows and Creation and Chloe).
Not ten minutes after this was taken, I was enveloped in a nasty gravel-spewing blast of wind:
I could see clouds of brown billowing from the southwest, and there was no way I was going to allow the BobD to take another El Paso sandblasting, no way. There's a road! 491 north! We're taking it. Now the wind is at my back. If I go 50 mph or above, there is no wind. If I go 40, clouds of dust sweep in front of me. Good Lord. Here is a photograph with reduced gamma so you can see what I had just narrowly escaped, that is dirt and sand down there at the lower left, the Ship Rock is on the right:
Here is where I ended up. Calm, only breezy, and much appreciated grass to hold down the howling choking sand and dust:
Look! 96,000 miles. So sorry to watch that odometer spin around like the price at the gas pump, but heck, I escaped the wind at least. Too bad I didn't look at the gas gauge:
Green grass now, trees, too, Far off snow-capped mountains:
Saw a grey stripe in my Rand McNalley map that suggests I can get to Utah if I take a left at the Cortez Airport. Grey stripes are described as "secondary roads". Well, I took it. Enjoyed the green grass and the green trees and the absence of blowing gravel and dust, but a headwind is kicking up. This road is up and down and left and right and it leads promisingly to nowhere. Now I look at the gas gauge. Oy. We are just shy of diving into the red. I am now 28 miles west of Cortez and look it:
The wind and the sand have found me. There is no escape. This is a dead-on headwind that just grabs the car. I am out of the green, no more trees, just little clots of browning grass, and the sky is a portent of what I will be eating and breathing and wearing for the next three days:
I am declutching and killing the engine on every down hill, driving only in the 35-40 mph band in 4th gear to reduce the drag of the wind. Watching the gas gauge, the rule is that I get only half of the remaining fuel to go west. If I do not find a gas station, I have to turn around and go back to Cortez with at least a tailwind to help. The wind is gusty and annoying, the dashboard has a layer of dirt as do the fresh air vents. Yuck. Finally, hit an intersection that says "Bluff" that way and "Aneth" this way, and there is a gas station. Got about 22 mpg into the headwind at 40 mph.
"Oh, yeah, you are in Utah now, we are Utah here, you know that there is a wind warning, right?"
"Oh, is it windy?"
Stopped at a river for "lunch" where there were trees that could possibly be a "wind break". Nestled in the trees, I was hopeful that there might be some respite. There was. Enough respite from the wind that the biting flies actually had a chance to land . . . a beautiful little skinny female dog came sidling up to me. Uh oh. A moment where I have to guess if this is Jesus Himself testing me. Do I adopt the dog and take her with me for the next nine years? She is looking at me expectantly but with a deferential supplicative hopefulness.
"If you are Jesus Christ testing me, let me tell you that I likely won't Do The Right Thing right this minute, right this minute in fact, I am pissed at Your Father for this incessant wind." She was unimpressed with words, she was far more interested in my lunch. I shared it with her. She enjoyed the string cheese and looked dementedly silly chowing down on Santitos chips, passed on the broccoli. I gave her a bowl of water (- airkooledchris, yet another use for your magnetic dish) and at least determined that was she was not terribly thirsty. After a couple more fly chomps, I told her, "I'm outta here, good luck." Conscience-stricken by how shallow I really am ( We sent you to Eternal Hell because you turned your back on JesusLittleDog ), I spy in the rear view mirror the little dog trotting after me . . . with three of her little friends. Brandt told me later that these are "reservation dogs" that manage to manage (better than I seem to be doing in this wind).
Made it to the rock campsite, the serene seat of Glorious Creation last year is the Final Howling Armageddon this time:
Every photograph I took was battling a wind that threatened to knock me over. I am testy and pouting, "I can't get anything done in this wind." The big gusts throw rocks at the BobD. It pains me in the heart what an idiot I am, driving this beautiful example of a fine car into this hateful albeit lovely Mars Simulator:
The wind is a gusty howling earful and mouthful of dirt, and it will not let up in the slightest. Where is it going? Where did it come from? I get into the car and turn it around to face the wind (it is rated to handle a steady 75 mph wind on the highway, I reckon) just in case a big gust wants to blow it off the rock. The car is rocking like we are driving on a pitchy road. The sound through the mirrors and antenna does not let up for the entire night. I go for a frisky King Lear Swearing Diatribe photoshoot down the road. I shall not waste your reading time about my "discussion" with the Big Creator Guy regarding His errors of how to make a decent climate on Planet Earth.
A VW Bus On Mars:
In the morning, I awake to only gusty puffs, no more howls.
The sliding door grates. The engine hatch grits. The driver's side window sounds like gravel is in the felt channel. Everything in the car is contaminated by dirt. I am darkly furious with Life Itself and Me Too. My Tide/Chlorox bath is interrupted by a runner, a runner! in goggles wrapped in a white bathrobe who ran up the two mile dirt path, apparently ran past little bald King Lear's morning toiletries, and ran back to tell me, "I don't miss my morning run, but the wind isn't helping." Made me feel like a darkly furious pansy, but I bet he gets to take a SHOWER when he gets HOME.
I love this infuriating old Earth and my stupid little life on it, but still complain bitterly. Marvelling at the wide scope of different views of the same location, I cannot believe my rock camp site could host such different experiences as 2013 and 2014:
2013
2014