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On Blogging and Podcasting

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Episode 7: On Blogging and Podcasting.

Everyone has a different idea of what blogging and podcasting is for. I thought I’d take a few bytes to explain my views. It’ll help readers and listeners understand what motivates me to share the information I share.

Transcript:

Hi, I’m Maria Langer. Welcome to Maria Speaks Episode 7: On Blogging and Podcasting.

Everyone has a different idea of what blogging and podcasting is for. I thought I’d take a few bytes to explain my views. It’ll help readers and listeners understand what motivates me to share the information I share.

My blogs and podcasts are separate and, in most cases, do not overlap. This entry is one exception; it’ll appear in both.

My blog, which is called Maria’s WebLog, contains over 270 entries written since October 2003. These entries cover a wide range of topics dealing with my everyday life and opinions about what I see going on around me.

I consider Maria’s WebLog to be an online journal. My main purpose is to share my experiences and views with readers. Part of it is to journalize my life so I can remember events in the future. The other part is to let my friends and family members know what’s going on in my life. I’m surprised when I meet someone and they tell me they’ve read my bLog. They’re welcome to read it, but they need to understand that I’m not writing it for them. I’m writing it primarily for me.

I don’t know how many people actually read my blog because it’s hosted on my .

Mac account and there isn’t any stat software for me to track it. But it appears that it is widely read by people all over the world. (If you’re reading it now, you might want to take this opportunity to use the Comments link to check in with your name and location, just for kicks.)

Some people read my blog entries and are offended by them. I think that’s pretty funny. There are so many things in this world that are far more offensive than anything I could write. But these people focus on a comment or observation or opinion I made in these blogs and use it as evidence that I’m some kind of evil person. Whatever. I think people like that need to get a life.

I made an entry the other day that left people wondering whether my entries were truth or fiction. What do you think?

One more thing about the bLog. I maintain it using iBlog software, which is a Macintosh-based blogging client. iBlog is a really cool little software package because it runs on my Mac and does not require access to the Internet to use. Instead, it keeps a database of all my blog entries as I write them. When I’m ready to publish, I connect to the Internet and click a button. This was really useful when I took my laptop to my place on Howard Mesa, which is off the grid. I’d just hit the coffee shop in Williams a few times a week and use their wireless access to update my blog and check my e-mail.

Maria Speaks is my podcast. For the folks reading this transcript in my bLog, here’s a brief definition. A podcast is an audio recording saved in a format that can be listened to on a computer or MP3 player, like an iPod. I call my podcast Maria Speaks because it’s me talking and I couldn’t think of a better name.

My idea of a podcast is that is should share useful information with listeners. After all, that’s why I subscribe to and listen to podcasts.

For example, I’m a big fan of NPR and now that I’m not tuned in all day, I like to listen to NPR stories as podcasts when I’m driving or flying.

I’ve tried a bunch of podcasts that I thought were a waste of my time. I don’t listen to them anymore. If there’s no value in what I’m listening to — if I can’t learn something or be entertained by something I can’t hear elsewhere — then what’s the purpose? There are too many podcasts full of talking heads that aren’t saying anything worth listening to. I don’t want my podcast to be like that.

So when it came time for me to do my own podcast, I had a choice. I could either vocalize my existing bLog entries by reading them — like I’m doing here — or I could create new content of interest to listeners. Since I don’t think my bLog entries are informative enough to attract listeners, I decided to go with new content.

I make my living writing about computers and there’s always some tip or trick I could share. So I decided to focus on computer-related topics, including tips and tricks for being more productive. I’m primarily a Macintosh user, so most of my podcast entries are about Mac computing, although I did publish a cross-platform episode about Microsoft Word yesterday. And because I’m not comfortable recording without a script, each episode has a transcript available online, complete with screen shots if necessary.

Please don’t get the idea that Maria Speaks will only be about using computers. I hope to come up with other interesting topics to enlighten listeners. I also encourage all listeners to visit the Maria Speaks home page and leave comments about what they’ve heard. Was the episode helpful? Not helpful? Boring? Interesting? What do you want to hear? All I ask is that you be gentle with me. Harsh comments don’t get results.

You can find links to the home pages for Maria’s WebLog and Maria Speaks on my Web site, www.aneclecticmind.com. Those pages include links for subscribing to the RSS feeds for both.

Well, as usual, I hope you found this episode interesting. You can read its transcript on Maria’s WebLog. Thanks for listening. Bye!

Back to the Desert

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Day 13 brings me to the mountainous desert around Salt Lake.

Despite my less than perfect accommodations, I slept reasonably well. I think it’s because of the sound of flowing water that came in through the door to the back deck. I’d left the door open a few inches, trusting the lock on the screen door to keep out any hotel guests who might be wandering around on the deck. I was in the end room, so the chance of someone walking by my door on their way to another room was remote.

I showered. It was the first motel shower I’d encountered in a long time that couldn’t keep a steady water temperature. Every time one of my neighbors flushed the toilet, I’d come close to getting scalded. The third time this happened, I shut the water off and called it quits.

I packed up the car, checked out, and headed south on 89. I had a Doubleshot to meet my caffeine needs. (My friend Lorna, who has been reading these entries faithfully from her home in Maine, e-mailed me to ask what a Doubleshot is. In case you don’t know, here’s the scoop. A Doubleshot is a canned Starbucks coffee drink. It’s an easy way to get a caffeine fix when I’m on the road. I usually buy a couple of them when I’m in a supermarket and keep them in my cooler. When I can’t find decent coffee elsewhere, I drink a doubleshot. I don’t really like them — they’re too sweet for my taste — but they’re easy.)The road began by following the Snake River through a canyon. When it reached the town of Alpine, WY, the Snake River curved to the northwest while I headed south. Alpine was a nice little town with a lot of tasteful new construction and small businesses. The town was very quiet — it wasn’t even 8 AM yet. I almost passed a drive-up coffee stand. When I spotted it, I hit my brakes hard and pulled in for a latte.

The building was tall and it was quite a reach up to the woman inside it. My Clarkston reused coffee grinds experience had left me a little leery of coffee stands, but I had nothing to worry about here. The woman, who was very friendly, made me an excellent large triple latte. I asked her whether she owned the booth and she told me she didn’t. In fact, it was her last day at work. She was moving back to Spokane, WA. The woman who owned the booth was doing okay, but it was hard to do well in the town because of its heavy Mormon population. I later discovered that Mormons don’t drink coffee. I guess a coffee shop in a Mormon town would be like opening up a pork store in New York’s Lower East Side.

From Alpine, I headed due south on 89, which lies on the east side of the Wyoming/Idaho border. I was in farmland again, but at an elevation well over 5,000 feet. Wheat and alfalfa seemed to be the big crops. One alfalfa field had just been cut — probably the previous day — and the smell of the fresh alfalfa was rich and sweet.

I think I was in Afton when I saw the car wash and pulled in. I’d managed to call Megg on my cell phone and arrange to go to her house in North Salt Lake City that afternoon. My car was dirty and I didn’t want to make a bad impression. So I washed it for the third time on my trip. This time, it was the dirtiest it had been so far. The bug situation in Idaho, Montana, and Wyoming is bad and the front of the car was pretty much plastered with dead bugs of all shapes, sizes, and colors. It took six minutes worth of car wash time to get it all off. I dried it with my rags and dusted off the dashboard. Much better.

I crossed into Idaho at Geneva Summit, which was 6,938 feet. That put me into a long valley with a succession of towns: Montpelier, Ovid, Paris, St. Charles, Fish Haven, and Garden City. Every town I drove through was remarkably quiet — nothing seemed to be open. Except the church, of course. All the church parking lots were full and I saw more than a few well-dressed people out on the streets, walking to or from church. Things changed a bit when I got near Bear Lake. Lots of people were out and about at the lake, in boats and in public access areas. There was a lot of housing on the lake side of the road with plenty of Private and No Beach Access signs to keep people out.

Bear Lake

Somewhere between Fish Haven and Garden City, I passed into Utah, the ninth state I’d visited on my trip. At Garden City, I got on route 30 and followed that around the south end of the lake. I climbed a hill and immediately realized that I had slipped into high desert terrain. The vegetation on both sides of the road consisted of tall grass, sage, and a variety of other desert plants. I was getting closer to home, leaving the water wonderland I’d enjoyed since entering Oregon more than a week before. I felt disappointed and did not look forward to what I’d drive through ahead: dry desert, hot sun, empty riverbeds. I realized that I’d fallen out of love with the desert.

I turned right on route 16 with a bunch of other cars, heading southbound. More farmland, but not much more. I passed the bunch of cars, tired of breathing their exhaust. Later, I turned right again onto route 39, heading west. The road climbed and climbed and climbed. I kept checking my GPS for elevation information and the number kept going up. I was certain that when I reached the top of the mountains, there would be a lookout where I could see Salt Lake. I crossed over the Monte Cristo Summit, at 9000 feet, and started down. There was no lookout. The road dropped into a canyon with a small stream on either side. It twisted and turned as it descended. I passed two pickup trucks and some kind of Volkswagen — a Jetta, maybe? — blew past me.

I spotted a restaurant on the left and made a harrowing turn into a parking space. I needed a bathroom and lunch, in that order. I asked for them in reverse order. It would be a 20 minute wait to eat outside on the patio, which looked like a good place to eat. I got directions to the ladies room and while I was doing my business, decided I didn’t feel like waiting. Instead, I’d find a shady spot in a park and eat some of the food in my cooler. So I left and continued on my way.

Trouble was, there was no shady spot in a park. All I passed were campgrounds, and since it was Sunday at midday, all of the campgrounds were full. So I kept driving.

The road dumped me down in Ogden. I got on a main avenue that was also labeled route 89 and headed south toward Salt Lake. I wasn’t in a hurry. I was supposed to meet Megg at around four and it was only 1:30. That meant I had time to kill.

I should have killed time up in Ogden, because when I got closer to North Salt Lake, all of the shops and businesses were closed again. It would not be a good place to kill time. I drove all the way down to the city, then came all the way back up to Bountiful, where I found a Barnes and Noble that was open. I killed over an hour in there, buying books for myself (as if I needed them) and for Megg’s son, Cooper. Then I hopped over to the Taco Bell for a bite to eat. Then I drove around some more. It was around four and I was in a Smith’s parking lot, after buying two pies for Megg and her family, when I finally connected with Megg. I was five minutes from her house. She gave me directions and I made my way over there.

Megg is one of my editors. She works with me on my Quicken Official Guide books, which I’ve been revising faithfully since the Quicken 99 edition back in 1998. Megg hasn’t been stuck with me that long. She inherited me from my first editor on that book, Joanne, about five years ago.

Megg has a lovely and very large house on a hill overlooking the North Salt Lake area. Excellent views, plenty of space. And a very comfy guest room. I met her son and her husband. I then proceeded to join her for a very relaxing afternoon and evening.

Elk and Bison and Bears — Oh, My!

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Day 12 takes me through two national parks on my way south.

I slept better at Lynn’s house than anywhere I’d been so far. The bed was warm and cosy, the air was clean and fresh, and the sound of the creek rushing by the house was the perfect white noise for sleep.

I got up my usual time and soon realized that Lynn was awake, too. I had some coffee and Lynn had some tea and we chatted. Then I went up to take a shower while she put the horses back out to pasture.

She drove me to a town called Alder for breakfast. On the way, we stopped at a town called Laurin (which is not pronounced the way it’s spelled, but I can’t remember how to pronounce it) where Lynn showed me two small houses that had been built inside metal grain silos. She said that when she and Ray had farmed down near Klamath Falls, they’d had a bunch of those silos and never knew what to do with them — they didn’t grow grain and no one else in the area did either, anymore. This seemed to be a perfect solution.

We had egg sandwiches at a local farmer cafe and I picked up the tab. Then we went back to her place, where I packed up the car, said goodbye, and headed out.

I gassed up in Sheridan, at the only gas station. I then retraced our miles through Laurin and Alder on route 278. Along the way, I saw a bald eagle. It looked exactly like all the photos I’d seen of bald eagles, but it was picking on some road kill when I approached. It flew off to wait atop a fence post until I was gone so it could continue its meal.

I passed Nevada City along the way. My map indicates that it’s a ghost town, but there was plenty of activity there. Perhaps someone had fixed up the buildings alongside the road as a tourist attraction? Or built them from scratch to look like old western buildings? In either case, there were an awful lot of them and they were right on the road. A sign said that there would be living history events that day. A bunch of tourists had already gathered, including three motorcyclists who had found it necessary to take up a full parking spot for each of their Harleys. Ah, the good old American “I’m all that matters” attitude in action.

A few minutes later, I passed Virginia City, which has to be the most authentic western town I’ve seen so far. There were plenty of old buildings, in wonderful condition, housing shops and museums. Makes me sick to remember how Wickenburg tries to promote itself as “the west’s most western town,” when I pass through one that makes Wickenburg look like a shadowy imitation of something out of a sixties western. Somehow, the fast food joints ruin the effect.

Quake LakeI reached Ennis, which Lynn had told me was very touristy. I didn’t really notice that, but I made my turn there, so I may have missed that part of town. I was still on route 287, but it was heading southbound now. After a while, the road joined up with the Madison River, which I followed for quite some time. When I got to the turnoff for Quake Lake, I turned in. Lynn had told me a little about the place and said she’d wanted to see it when she and Ray had driven past. Ray hadn’t been interested at the time, so they’d gone past without stopping. The place was situated in a canyon where the Madison River flows. In the late 1950s, an earthquake had caused a landslide that dumped debris into the river bed. Twenty-eight people had been killed, although I don’t know how. Perhaps they were on the road there? In any case, the natural dam caused by the landslide had created Quake Lake. I read all this on the sign outside the visitor center. It was all I needed to know, so I didn’t go in. I took a picture of the little lake, then got back into the car and continued on the road as it wound alongside it. There were lots of dead trees sticking out of the water. I imagined a heavily forested canyon suddenly filled with water and the slow death of the trees that were submerged.

The road passed on the north side of Hebron Lake, a manmade lake along the Madison River. There were lots of homes on its shores, a few marinas, and some fishermen. Then, at the junction for route 191, I turned right, heading south.

My car’s odometer turned 14,000 miles about a mile outside of West Yellowstone, MT.

I was going to just drive through West Yellowstone when I spotted an IMAX theater. I enjoy IMAX movies — except the 3D ones, which look blurry to me — so I pulled in. They were showing three different movies: Yellowstone, Lewis and Clark, and Coral Reef. Although I wanted to see Lewis and Clark, Yellowstone was next up, so I bought a ticket to that. Since my cell phone finally had a decent signal, I called Mike while I waited and left him a message telling him where I was and where I was going.

The movie was good. Grand Canyon, which plays at Tusayan near the South Rim, was better, though.

YellowstoneI headed into the park, crossing over the border into Wyoming, the eighth state I’d visited so far. My National Parks pass got me in without a fee. (It works at Yellowstone but not Mt. St. Helens? What kind of bull is that?) I took the map and gave it a quick look. My objective was not to visit the park. My objective was to take a nice, scenic ride south toward Salt Lake City. The problem was, it was a Saturday in August. The park was full. And the tourists were of the most annoying variety: drive-through tourists who will stop their car anyplace someone else has stopped, just to take a picture of whatever that other person is taking a picture of. When I wanted to drive slowly, there was someone on my butt. When I wanted to drive faster, there was someone in front of me. When I wanted to stop in a place where no one else was stopped, two or three other cars immediately appeared, spewing occupants armed with cameras to take the same picture I was trying to take. At one point, I reached a traffic jam on a narrow, one-way road as at least 30 cars had stopped to photograph a grizzly bear on the other side of a creek. I was so wigged out by the crowd that I neither stopped nor saw the bear.

BisonI did see plenty of elk, though. The first herd was right inside the park, grazing along the Madison River. I guess seeing tourists have tamed them, to a certain extent, because some very gutsy tourists were approaching quite close and the elk didn’t seem to care. I also saw a few bison. Most of the bison, as I recall, are on the grassy east side of the park. I was on the west side. I saw four individual animals, each of which were the subject of many tourist photos. But the one that amazed me the most was the one walking alongside the road in a forested area. I think he was lost. But he was walking on the pavement, forcing vehicles to go around him. That, of course, caused a traffic jam because everyone wants the thrill of driving alongside a walking bison. When it was my turn to pass him, I didn’t stop. I just aimed my camera and pushed the button while I kept driving. He was so close that someone sitting in my passenger seat could have reached out and touched him. Although he didn’t seem interested in me (or anyone else), I could imagine what those horns would do to my car’s paint job if he decided he didn’t like the color red. I wondered what he thought of the long line of campers and SUVs and cars filing past him in slow motion. I also wondered where he was going. Probably to the administrative offices to complain about all the traffic and exhaust.

Old FaithfulI took the exit to the Old Faithful Inn, in search of a decent lunch. I got a great parking spot in the shade and got out with my camera. There was a huge crowd of people sitting on benches, facing the Old Faithful Geiser, which was spewing out various amounts of steam to keep them entertained. I tried two places and found a cafeteria and a buffet. I checked out the buffet and was surprised to find that the cafeteria food had looked better (although it didn’t smell better). As I was walking back to my car, Old Faithful let go and I managed to get a bunch of good photos. It was still bubbling water when I left. ChipmunkI also managed to get a photo of this little fellow. It’s unfortunate, but people at national parks find it necessary to feed the wildlife. As a result, they become tame, like this guy probably was, and they forget how to forage for themselves. In the winter, when there are fewer tourists around, they starve. That is if they don’t get sick and die from the junk the tourists feed them.

I found a restaurant with table service at the Snow Lodge. I had a nice salad with warm goat cheese cakes on it. Tasty. Then I got back into the car and made my way out, before a new post Old Faithful eruption could start another traffic jam.

I followed the signs to Grant Village, crossing the Continental Divide twice along the way. At one point, I caught a glimpse of Yellowstone Lake. I was surprised — I didn’t remember it being so big. And I saw plenty of evidence of forest fires: where I’d first come into the park, near Old Faithful, and now as I left the park, driving toward the South Entrance. I passed Lewis Falls, on the Snake River, the first waterfall Mike and I had seen when we’d come into the park from the south years before. I clearly remember the fresh forest fire damage at the falls — there was nothing alive back then. Now the dead trees were still there, but new pines were growing in. It would take a long time for the park’s forests to recover.

Grand TetonsThe road followed the Snake River down to Jackson Lake and Grand Teton National Park. The main feature of Grand Teton is the mountain with the same name, on the southwest side of the lake. It’s 13,770 feet tall, very rocky, and has a glacier not far from the top. In this photo, it’s the mountain that’s farthest away. It was after 3 PM and the sun was moving to the west, making it difficult to get a good photo of the mountains from the east. I followed the road, choosing the path that kept me close to the lake rather than the faster road that went direct to Jackson. A scenic drive.

I passed through the southern boundary of the park and, a while later, was approaching Jackson. By this time, I was exhausted. I’d left the top down most of the day and I had been slow-roasted by the sun. All I wanted was a clean, quiet motel room. I stopped about about a half-dozen places on the north side of town and was told that they only rooms left were either smoking or very expensive. I drove through Jackson, figuring I’d find a place somewhere outside of town, on the south side. Jackson, WY, is a tourist processing plant. Tourists go there, park their vehicles, and then proceed through a series of shops and restaurants and tourist attractions designed to wring their money out of them. I couldn’t believe the number of people on the streets. Traffic was horrendous. And I couldn’t understand what attracted these people, like flies to honey. The real tourist attraction was north of town, the lakes and mountains and wildlife. Gift shops and cheap t-shirt joints can be found anywhere. When I finally got out of town, I was glad I hadn’t found a room there.

I wound up at a motel along a creek, just where the creek merges with the Snake River. I took an upstairs room facing the creek. After getting some dinner at a restaurant 3 miles away, I sat on my patio with my maps and a bottle of wine, trying to figure out where I’d go next. I was on my way home — that was for sure. After nearly two weeks and over 3,000 miles on the road, I was ready for my own bed.

I Made It!

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I arrive at Howard Mesa for my summer vacation.

It was months in the planning. And, near the end, it didn’t seem as if I’d make it as scheduled. But on Saturday, June 25, I flew up to Howard Mesa with whatever gear I could stuff into Zero-Mike-Lima. Mike, with his pickup filled with purchases, Jack the Dog, Alex the bird, and the horse trailer with two horses, came up the slow way.

I left Wickenburg about forty-five minutes after Mike. I wasn’t in a rush. The idea was to get there before him, but with an estimated flight time of about an hour and an estimated drive time of 2-1/2 hours, I had plenty of time. It was a relatively smooth flight, but the sky was quickly filling with cumulus clouds. Unusual, given that it was only around 8 AM. I was sprinkled on just east of Paulden, but it wasn’t enough rain to get the bugs off my cockpit bubble.

There was also enough sun during the flight for me to sun my legs. I was wearing a pair of ratty gym shorts with my Keds. I hate getting a Keds tan — that’s when your feet are white and there’s a tan line across the middle of your foot. So I took off my shoes and rested my heels on the tops of the pedals. I was pretty surprised that I still had good control of the pedals, even with my legs stretched almost straight out. Not that I needed to do much pedal pushing. At 110 knots, it isn’t tough staying in trim.

I stopped for fuel at Williams, where the 100LL price is currently $2.89/gallon. That’s 40¢/gallon cheaper than Wickenburg. I took 38.3 gallons. The Airport Manager, George, and his wife came out to look at the helicopter. He wanted to help me fuel, but I insisted on doing it myself. It was cool and breezy and quite a pleasure to be outside.

George wants me to offer helicopter rides from Williams airport for the summer. I told him I probably wouldn’t because I only planned to be in the area 6 to 8 weeks and I had lots to do at my place at Howard Mesa.

I took off after 20 minutes and headed north. Valle’s Planes of Fame museum was having their semiannual War Bird Fly In and I heard the pilots doing fly bys chatting on the radio. Things got a bit tense when one of them called a Mayday, but he evidently resolved the problem because he kept flying. (Hell, it the word Mayday ever comes out of my mouth, you can bet I’ll be on the ground as soon as possible.)

Since I had time, I decided to do a little fly by of my own. Zero-Mike-Lima isn’t a war bird, but kids like helicopters and I figured that if any kids were there, I’d give them a little bonus. I got into the pattern behind something slow — slower than me — and had to cut power and pull back to avoid flying up his butt. He did a low, slow fly by on Runway 14, which is closed, and I followed him, trying to hang back so I would steal any of his thunder. Then I dropped down to about 50 feet AGL and, as soon as he was out of the way, pushed my nose forward, increased power, and zipped past whoever may have been watching. Then I headed south to Howard Mesa, anxious to get away from slow-flying airplanes.

Alex in his cageI landed on my gravel helipad near the trailer and shut down. Then I proceeded to do chores. Unlocking the camper, turning on the power and refrigerator, tuning in the stereo (presets get lost when you shut power), hooking up the water, setting up the pump, opening the gate, putting out the carpet. I was just staking down the awning when I heard Mike’s truck pull in. He unloaded the horses and other critters and I made him lunch. Then we put away all the things he’d brought: Alex’s big cage from the coffee shop, the cabinets I’d bought for the shed, and the tools I’d need to work over the summer.

It was after 12 PM when we headed down to Williams. I had a radio interview with Inside Mac and they had requested that I call their toll-free number from a land line. Since there’s no land line at Howard Mesa, we decided to take care of it in Williams, where we had some shopping to do anyway. I found a payphone in the Fray Marcos hotel, spent exactly 12 minutes on the phone with a guy who mentioned the title of my Tiger book, using the wrong title (“virtual” rather than “visual”) about ten times. Then we hit the hardware store and Safeway supermarket and headed back up to the mesa.

We have forty acres at Howard Mesa and one of the first things we did after buying the place was to fence it all in. It took about a mile of fencing and $8K to get the job done. It was done by Grantham Custom Fence of Wickenburg and they did an incredible job. The straight bits are perfectly straight and the fence is good and sturdy. We do need to make repairs now and then when the top wire gets damaged by an elk jumping over. My only complaint is that the corner posts are coming out due to the annual freeze-thaw cycles. Although Ty’s guys used concrete and dug each one in at least two feet, the earth squeezes them up a little every year. The fence is still sound, of course, but it looks a little weird in the corners.

The reason we fenced it all in was so the horses could run free. We call it the “salad bar” because as soon as they step off the trailer, they’re grazing. They love it at Howard Mesa, although the first night they were up here this year, they did get snowed on. They have a round pen here where we put their food and water, but the gate is always open. They come and go as they please. Right now, as I write this, they’re about 100 feet away, grazing.

Somewhere along the line, Jack the Dog decided that it was his job to keep the horses away from us. He’d wait until they were about 50-100 feet away, then tear off after them, barking. Cherokee, who is afraid of rabbits, would take off and Jake, not quite sure why Cherokee was running, would start running, too. It look a lot of yelling and rock throwing — yes, at the dog — to get him to stop.

Cherokee at CageMike spent the afternoon hooking up the camper to our septic system. It was a good thing he did, because the camper had been used for three short trips without being dumped and it was beginning to get stinky. I took care of things inside — putting away groceries, making the bed, cleaning things up. Two hot showers later, we had dinner at the picnic table outside the camper, with our horses and the San Francisco Peaks to admire while we ate. Cherokee decided to stand on the other side of the bird cage while we ate dinner. His head was about 2 feet from Alex. Alex was very quiet while Cherokee was there. Then Cherokee decided to sample the corn cob litter I’m using at the bottom of Alex’s cage. I think he likes it. We had to scold him and chase him off. Jake came over and watched us eat our corn. I think he was begging. It was very weird having the horses so close to us — less than five feet away — while we ate. I’m not sure how much I like it. Meanwhile, Alex has already learned to imitate the squeaky screen door. He makes the sound every time we open the door. I’m waiting for him to learn how to call Cherokee.

We watched the sun set and it immediately cooled down. It had been in the high 70s all day, with several isolated thunderstorms that had missed us by a few miles. Nice rainbows. When the sun set, the temperature dropped about 10 degrees in less than 30 minutes. We went in for the night because we were cold.

Sunday dawned with a beautiful cloudless sky. For a while, there was very little wind. We had a light breakfast and set about our morning chores. My job was to take the new weed whacker and whack weeds. I started with the horse’s round pen, which we use to feed them. The weeds were knee high in some places, but I made short work of them. Then I whacked around the camper and went after the tumbleweeds growing on the southeast side of my helipad. The tumbleweeds were young and fleshy and they splattered me with green stuff. Anyone who uses a weed whacker without eye protection should have his head examined.

Mike worked on the shed’s roof. Some of the shingles on top were loose and he wanted to seal them up with glue and special nails. he finished before me and spent a lot of time watching me go after the weeds. I finally stopped when the engine was out of gas. I was out of gas, too. And my right arm was so weak I couldn’t lift a glass of water to my mouth.

We decided we’d go to Flagstaff for the rest of the morning, but changed our mind halfway down the mesa. Instead, we’d go to either the Grand Canyon or Williams for brunch. We decided on Williams because we didn’t feel like dealing with weekend traffic at the canyon. Bad decision. We wound up in a terrible restaurant in downtown Williams. The food was only partially edible, the service was terrible, and the waiter was skeevy. And it wasn’t cheap. A learning experience, we agreed. We wouldn’t go there again.

We went for lattes in a coffee shop and I discovered that they had free wireless Internet. I’ll probably have a latte there tomorrow morning while this is sent to my blog server and I collect my e-mail.

Zero Mike Lima at Howard MesaBack on the mesa, we relaxed for a while before doing our final chore for the day: surrounding the helicopter’s landing area with a “fence.” We had some plastic fence posts designed to hold electric tape. We’d bought the whole system — complete with solar fence charger — as an option for when we went camping with the boys. But we’d since used the fence charger and some of the tape to surround the chicken coop and keep our neighbors dogs and coyotes out. We had these posts and plenty of tape left, so we used them to make a perimeter around the helicopter. The idea is to keep the horses out of the landing zone when the engine is running. Our horses respect fences, so we knew it would keep them out. We just weren’t sure how well the posts and tape would hold up to rotor wash.

We got to try it out a few hours later. I was keeping Mike’s truck with me at Howard Mesa, so I needed to take Mike home. Let’s see…two hours round trip by helicopter or five hours round trip by truck? Tough decision, huh? Mike waited outside our little fence while I started up, warmed up, and brought it up to 100% RPM. The fence held. Mike climbed aboard and we took off. The horses watched from 150 yards away. Cherokee looked very confused.

We had a quartering headwind for most of the trip home, so it took us the full hour. Mike offloaded his stuff and put a few things from the hangar on board for me. I took off for the return trip with a quartering tailwind that brought my ground speed up as high as 144 knots. Yee-ha! I got back to the mesa in about 45 minutes.

As I came in for my landing, I looked for the horses. They were about 100 yards from the landing zone. When they saw me coming in, however, they took off running. Unfortunately, they decided that the safest place was their corral, which was about 50 feet from my fenced-in landing zone. They stood by the gate and watched me set down. I think Jake recognized the big red thing that had been parked there all weekend and had left just two hours before. I waved at them. When I killed the engine, I got out and talked to them, then got them some alfalfa. They forgot all about scary loud red flying machines.

I’ve done my chores for the evening and taken a walk “around the block” with Jack the Dog. The sun set about 20 minutes ago and it’s starting to get cool. I’m wearing long pants, a long sleeved shirt, and a sweatshirt. Mike, who called a while ago, says it’s in the 90s back home. He’s watching the Mets/Yankees game on television and says the house is weird with no animals or other people.

To me, Howard Mesa is weird with all these animals but no Mike.

Return of the Toyota

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My 1987 Toyota MR-2 returns to Wickenburg for an oil change.

“The oil pan is damaged,” the oil change guy in Prescott said. “I can’t change the oil.”

“Can I see?” I replied.

He escorted me to the secret underground chamber where the oil change guys who do the under-the-car stuff perform their magic. Everything was covered with a thin coat of oil that slicked up the bottoms of my Keds. I looked up at the underside of my 1987 Toyota MR-2 and marveled at how old, rusty, and dirty it looked.

“There,” the oil change guy said, pointing.

Pointing was not necessary. The oil pan was clearly bashed in. The bash was at least six inches across and four inches wide and probably reduced my total oil capacity by a pint. I was lucky it hadn’t bashed about two inches farther back, where it would have bashed off the drain bolt. Or that the rock that had done the damage hadn’t bashed right through the metal.

I pulled out my digital camera and tried to take a picture, but the battery was dead. Figures. How often do I get a chance to photograph the underside of one of my cars?

“I’m afraid I won’t be able to get the plug back in,” the oil change guy explained. “Sorry.”

We climbed up into the garage and he pulled the car back out into the Prescott sunshine. He took out the paper floor mat and plastic seat cover and left the car there for me to take away.

I went for a second opinion, pretending I didn’t know anything about the bashed in oil pan. A few minutes after they pulled the car into the garage, the shop manager came out looking upset. “I hate to break this to you,” he started.

“My oil pan is bashed in,” I told him.

“You know?”

“Sure.”

“Well, we can’t change the oil.”

“Because you’re afraid you won’t be able to get the plug back in,” I finished for him.

He looked stunned. I was a mind reader.

I drove off, now just about out of time. I’d gone up to Prescott to drop off my helicopter for service and had spent the day shopping, filling the Toyota’s passenger seat with all kinds of things. The oil change was my last task of the day. It had been over a year and 1,000 miles since I last had the oil changed and I didn’t want the car to feel as if I was totally neglecting it. (I got it washed last time I drove it, two months ago.) But no one would change the oil and now it was time to go back to get Zero-Mike-Lima.

I’d have to get the oil pan fixed. I wasn’t about to do that in Prescott. I’d bring it back to Wickenburg to the only mechanic the MR-2 loves: Dan.

But not that day.

I offloaded my purchases at the airport and stuffed them into Zero-Mike-Lima, then flew home.

This past weekend, Mike and I drove up to Howard Mesa to drop off our camper. We were supposed to have our shed delivered (again) but the holiday weekend made that impossible, so it was postponed (again). But on the way home, we had to drive right past Prescott Airport, where the MR-2 lives. Mike dropped me off and I hopped into the MR-2.

“Surprise!” I told it, as I removed the sunshades.

As usual, it started right up. I love that car.

We had dinner at a new Asian fusion restaurant in Prescott that I can’t recommend. The scores, based on a scale of 1 to 10, are as follows: Atmosphere/Decor: 8; Service: 3; Food Quality: 4; Value for Dollar: 5. We can cross that one off our list.

Then we drove home.

Now there are two ways to get from Prescott to Wickenburg. We call them the curvy way (White Spar Road – route 89) and the straighter way (Iron Springs Road). Mike wanted to go the straighter way, but we were in town, closer to get to the curvy way. It would have taken 15-20 minutes just to get to the other side of town. So I voted for the curvy way, presented my logic, and won. I led the way.

Now the Toyota may be 18-1/2 years old and it may have 132,000 miles on it and it may also have its original clutch, but it was born a sports car and it hasn’t forgotten how sports cars are supposed to perform on curvy roads. And I certainly haven’t forgotten how to make that baby perform. We took off on White Spar Road, settled into second gear, and screamed around every one of the curves. Fortunately, there was no one in front of me — I hate passing on double yellows (just kidding, officer!) — so there was no real reason to use the brakes. Just keep those RPMs up and let the engine do all the work. I had a blast. And I beat Mike to Wilhoit — fifteen miles down that curvy road — by about three minutes.

God, I love that car.

I waited at the side of the road in Wilhoit for him, then let him pull out in front of me to set the pace for the straight part of the drive. He set a quick pace: about 75 mph. The MR-2 handled it nicely. I’m glad he kept it below 80, because I’ve noticed a serious increase in fuel consumption when the speedometer needle moves past that 12:00 position on the dial. (Yes, 80 mph is straight up on that car’s dash.) The stereo, which had been tuned into a classic rock station based in Prescott, stopped picking up a signal, but the Scan feature locked in on a Dewey/Humbolt-based station that was playing late 1970s disco. I’m talking about We Are Family, Kung-Fu Fighting, Copacabana, and other big AM-radio hits from my early college days, when my tastes in music were somewhat confused by the Top-40 thing and my job at a retail clothing store. Although the stereo’s two back speakers are dead and I have them turned off, I still cranked up the volume so I could reminisce while driving 75 mph into a high desert sunset.

For the record: I don’t like disco. But listening to it for short lengths of time does bring me back to a simpler time of life, when I only had one car to worry about (a 1970 Volkswagen Beetle that would never be reliable) and having $20 in my pocket made me feel rich.

I started smelling something weird at Kirkland Junction. Engine smell. Now the MR-2’s engine is behind the passenger cabin — it’s a mid-engine car — so I don’t usually smell the car’s engine problems. I figured it was the car in front of me, which was Mike’s truck. I got a little worried about it, but there didn’t seem to be a problem because he was keeping up his pace, probably listening to some blues music as loudly as I was listening to disco on crummy speakers.

On one of my glances in the rearview mirror, I noticed some brown splashed on my back window. Shit. My MR-2 was bleeding.

I checked my gauges. Everything was fine. But the smell was still there and there was definitely some kind of fluid splashing up from the engine compartment’s vent onto my back window.

I flashed my lights at Mike’s tail end. He was grooving with the blues band and didn’t see me. I slowed down. I wondered if my cell phone would work up there. Then I came around a bend and saw that Mike had also slowed down. He started to speed up, but I flashed him again and pulled over. I came to a stop behind him on the shoulder and turned on my 4-ways.

“My car is bleeding,” I told him, stepping out. “I’m afraid that if I shut off the engine it won’t start.”

“Pop the engine lid.”

I did as he instructed.

“Oh, shit,” he said. “Turn it off.”

I turned it off. “What is it?”

“It looks like those guys who were going to do the oil change didn’t screw the cap on tight,” he told me.

The engine had been spitting oil out the filler cap, probably for the past five or ten miles. There was oil all over the top of the engine.

Fortunately, the cap had wedged itself on top of the engine. He got a paper towel from his truck and came back to the car, then pulled out the cap and screwed it on tight. Then he closed the lid.

“Start it up.”

I started it.

“How’s your oil pressure?”

“Low, I told him. “But it wasn’t low when I was driving.”

“Rev it up.”

I revved. The pressure needle climbed.

“It should be okay,” he said. “Keep an eye on it. And keep your RPMs down.”

We continued on our way. He kept his speed down to just around the speed limit. My oil pressure looked good. The radio station switched from disco to 50s rock. Ick.

I left the Toyota in the parking lot next to Dan’s place. Dan has a gate at his place that he locks at night.

Let me tell you about Dan.

Dan used to run a car fix-it place in Wickenburg called Dan’s Automotive. Mike and I took all our cars to him. He’s always been able to fix them and he doesn’t charge an arm and a leg. More than once I went to him with a stupid little problem when Mike was away — the kind of thing where someone knowledgeable about cars will just look at or listen to, adjust one thing, and the problem goes away — and he worked his magic on it without charging me a dime. He’s a laid back kind of guy, the kind of guy that Mike and I can deal with.

Then Dan sold the place to someone else.

I won’t mention names because I don’t have anything nice to say about the buyer. I continued to bring my cars to him. The Toyota was first. I had a nasty vibration at around 55 miles per hour that couldn’t be fixed with a tire balancing. He did something to it, and it seemed to be better. Then he asked if I’d ever had the timing belt replaced. The car had over 120,000 miles on it and I had to say no. He told me that the belt could go at any time and then it would be a costly repair. Changing it now could save money down the road. I bit and told him to change it. I also asked him to fix my air conditioner, which hadn’t worked right in about eight years. Four hundred plus dollars later, I got the car back. The air conditioning worked. But the car didn’t drive right. It had no power at all until I got to about 4800 RPM. Then the power kicked in. It was very noticeable in the lower gears. I brought the car back to him and told him about the problem. He had it for a few days and claimed to have fixed it. But he didn’t. The car now drove like shit and I was heartbroken.

I took it back up to Prescott. Every time I flew up to Prescott and drove the car, my heart ached. It had always been a sporty thing, one that was such a pleasure to drive. Now it drove worse than the VW Bug I’d had in college. And when I had a passenger on board, the added weight made things even worse.

To further add insult to injury, the air conditioner didn’t work very well, either.

Then we discovered that Dan had taken over the car fix-it place across the street from his old place. The guy he’d sold Dan’s to was not only a poor mechanic, but he was a poor businessman. He didn’t include a Covenant Not to Compete in the purchase agreement for Dan’s. Now Dan was back in business.

I brought the Toyota back down from Prescott to Dan at his new place and told him my sad story. “It’s breaking my heart every time I drive it,” I told him. “Please, please look at it and see what you can do.”

He did better than that. He fixed it. It appears that the timing belt was off by two notches. He set it the way it should be and the car was back to its fun-loving, tire-screeching, curve-blasting self. Woo-hoo!

So it was to this wrench-wielding hero that I brought the Toyota. I stopped in this morning to tell him why it was there.

“You know my Toyota loves you, don’t you?” I began.

He just smiled at me, probably wondering how such a wacko could be left roaming the streets.

“I tried to get the oil changed,” I said, “But they told me the oil pan was bashed in.”

“It’s been bashed in for a few years,” he told me. “You just have to work a little with the plug to get it back in.”

“Well, then can you just change the oil? And give it a look-over to make sure there’s nothing else wrong with it?”

“Sure.”

We talked a little about “restoring” it. It’s a kind of dream I have. Fixing it up so it looks like new. After all, it’ll be a classic car in just another six years. He was very non-commital, probably because he was wondering how such a wacko could be left roaming the streets.

“No rush,” I told him. “I’d like to have it back by Friday. It’s spending the summer in Williams.”

He promised to have it finished by then.

Now I’m thinking about the family photo I want to take: all my red cars and my red helicopter, together on the ramp at Wickenburg.

I’d better call the detailers. The Toyota and Jeep can really use a good cleaning.

As for the Toyota’s air conditioning, it doesn’t work at all anymore and probably never will.

June 3 Update: Apparently, the oil pan’s condition is worse than Dan thought. (I guess I bashed it a few more times since Dan last saw it.) He had to order a new oil pan from Toyota. Special order — can you imagine? So the Toyota will have at least one shiny part this summer. And this will be a costly oil change. Guess I won’t be driving it to my place on Howard Mesa anymore.