A Panty-wad Mini Rant...Dumping On Govie's Unpredictable Polices

Our stopover at the Red Cliffs BuRec Campground ended up being an overnight Port in a Storm—a vibrant Utah hued cove in which to drop anchor—only fifteen bucks when I would have paid a hundred to release my death grip on Goldie's rudder. 

Against The Wind

The San Rafael Swell sure is swell...a 60 million year old layered uplift of sandstone, shale, and limestone that juts sharply out of the ground east of Green River, Utah. I get goose bumps and trigger happy every time we drive through, over, or around it. To me, the swell resembles a Backbone with skin peeled away, exposed to the elements. You can find more "backbones" in Utah, one above Boulder named Hell's Backbone where you can drive the "vertebra," if you dare. Capital Reef forms another backbone, as did every Mormon pioneer who managed to carve a life and living out of this spectacular, but unforgiving land.

You can run but you can't hide

If you live in the western United States of America you are probably aware of the impending storm blowing its way south today; wind gusts to 60 mph and rain/snow/cold spreading into our neck of the desert here in Utah. There's no place to run, no place to hide...I've checked. One would have to be an ass to complain after nearly three weeks of meteorlogical ne plus ultra. 

Klonzo Hills, Gorgeous, Groomed Mountain Biking for Intermediate Riders...and A Few Other Things

There are probably more than a few newbies and wannabees out there...tiring of all the S. O. S. of mountain biking from what has become a semi-permanent boondock. Their vicarious "hitch" has been itching...ready to suck in the slides and fire up the diesel. Trust me, we are winding down; try to be patient while we milk our Red Dragon Hills and weather gods...both of whom seemed to have taken a liking to us.

Exploring Our Ordinary Backyard...Who's Converting Who?

At first glance, our camp might appear desolate to an "untrained" eye. So every day I'm in a rush to ride or hike off toward "The Pretties" of Arche's hoo doos and slick rock, you know...Postcards.

Weeeeee! A Day of Playing on the Slickrock...and, Accidental Civil Disobedience

Above, Bobbie cruises down one of hundreds of slickrock "loaves of bread." That's what they look like so that's what we call them. And Geeze Louise, we are falling in love with the recreational offerings around Camp Boonster II...a quieter, more private site, though not as in your face red as Camp I.

Harmony In An Incongruent Land...Focusing On Commonalities When Co-Boondocking and The Art of Compromise

The Boonster—above, in AM Sundial mode—he's an early exerciser. Probably has something to do with Coffee, as in Coffee Girl, wanting to get the day's adventure started. Can you blame her? She's off-leash, free to chase down every scent, rodent, rabbit, or insect...and so are we. What a way to live—unbounded freedom, unlimited options—plan-less as hobos, at least until Old Man Winter pushes us south.

Ruination or Progress

Nowadays we share Utah's Sickrock Bike/Jeep/ATV/horse/hiking trails; "Multiple Use," you know, everybody gets a slice of the Recreational Land pie. Even the big oil and gas companies get to "recreate," but they are allowed to put up a fence and Keep Out signs. One by one, all our favorite boondocking spots are being "improved" with a big oil bulldozer...flatted into football sized field with a twenty foot wide access road that will forever scar the landscape. 

Nirvana On My Mind

Yesterday, after a sun-splashed and windless mountain bike excursion through hill and dale country (arroyo and mesa in eastern Utah), we returned to Camp Boonster and gathered at the steps of Goldie's Bar and Grill in order to further overdose on natural vitamin D.  It was one of those Indian Summer kind of days where only fools retreat indoors to play with devices and check on the lack of progress in the hallowed halls of D C.

Slickrock, Part II: Riding The Serpent's Back

It's akin to riding on the back of a gargantuan sleeping dragon; mustn't disturb him, don't get him riled, just enjoy and try to get off with all your bones intact. Easier said than done.

Danger! Geezers at Play...

Take a billion or so cubic yards of ice cream, let it soften into smooth mounds under the Utah sun, then swirl in a dazzling array of syrups—strawberry, chocolate, black cherry—and refreeze it. That's what slickrock looks like, and this is how it looks to ride your mountain bike on it. And now, I'll tell you what it feels like to be a kid again.

Come Along on Backroads to Moab...Over Dallas Divide, Past Norwood, Nucla, Naturita, Disappointment Valley, Bedrock, Paradox, and Old La Salle

Greetings from Camp Boondock, Utah, on the edge of Postcard Country. In less than an hour Bobbie and I will be taking a Mountain Bike ride with the hater of all things "scenic," the lovey Romantics versus the austere Intellectual. Let the Games begin.

As it turns out, rumors of our imminent departure were greatly exaggerated...

What ain't done don't need doin', what ain't packed don't need takin, and what goodbyes ain't said don't need sayin'. All what needs ta happin now is ta just get goin'. Bon Voyage, my friends, and I'm not foolin'.

Reflection: The Power, Wisdom, and Courage that comes from Taking Stock of one's Experience

United States Mountain, framed in fall splendor and capped with winter snow. Tis a Lovely representation of feelings that I can't seem to find words for, that this is the view on my thrice weekly walk up Camp Bird Road, that somehow, someway, I managed to make good on a bold wet-behind-the-ears prophecy to my daddy whilst sitting around a campfire in the Amphitheater above Lovely Ouray: "Someday," I said softly, "I will live here. Mark my words." It was the last time I saw him, for he would die a little over a month later.

Ms Autumn is in a lingering mood this year...

One column deadline met, one more to go; then it starts all over again next month. I think it's the finality of the name "deadline" more than anything that makes me anxious. Makes me wonder about its origin...did they use to kill writers if their work was a tad late? 

More "Last Dollar Road" Postcards, and A Big Hug For The BCB Readers

I have good news to share, but first...

Spamming You With More Primis-less, Uninspiring Postcards, and, A Bonus Pack Mini-Rant!!!

Some people look down long noses at blogs like the BCB as being uninspiring and/or intellectually trivial. It use to get under my skin to the point that I'd rail against such people in comments boxes, trying to explain the inexplicable, only to be told that I was "missing the point" of the post. I guess I'm just too dumb. I don't get why some find it necessary to criticize lesser Blogs. Why does it bother them that people are different?  Honestly, I can't see the harm in showing the world one of my chosen art forms, one that allows readers a glimpse of what it's like to hike, bike, photograph, live, or simple RV through glossy magazine-like places, most of which are off the beaten path. If that makes me simple, so be it. If photos and trail experience descriptions of some of the best hiking and biking opportunities in the Four Corner states (and occasionally beyond) bothers them then they shouldn't look in on the BCB, because that, along with a few stories, is what will be found. And another thing...why would Google Ads and/or "friends and followers" threaten or bother them? Does it somehow cheapen or lower the value of the content to try and make a living on the road? I have found that criticism is often the tool of choice for the insecure. So go ahead and blast away at different RV Lifestyles. Hell, why stop there...

Postcards From The Edge of Autumn on the Eve of Departure

As the Box Canyon Couple tries to squeeze the last strokes of Glory from Ms Autumn's palette, now dusted with snow, the world marches on...except for Govie, that is. There seems to be two types of people in this world, the Talkers, and the Doers. I'm beginning to believe Congress falls in the former group, thinking if they talk to us enough they won't ever have to DO anything. I wish they would talk to each other, make up their minds, and act like adults instead of high schoolers. But enough politics. There is plenty of land to boondock on and explore outside the "pretties;" they can't close the whole west. 

"When The Snow is on The Roses, and Blue Birds Have Flown Away"

Well, there goes a snowplow—blue lights flashing, blade scraping pavement, headed through town and on it's way up Red Mountain, no doubt. 

Footloose and Disaffiliated in the West's Space-Time Continuum

"In so far as the west was a civilization at all between Lewis and Clark...and 1870, it was largely a civilization in motion, driven by dreams. The people...were...credulous, hopeful, hardy, largely uninformed. The dreams are not dead even today...the habit of mobility has only been reinforced by time. With a continent to take over and Manifest Destiny to goad us, we could not have avoided being footloose. The initial act of emigration from Europe, an act of extreme, deliberate disaffiliation, was the beginning of a national habit." From Wallace Stegner, "Marking The Sparrow's Fall...The Making Of The American West."